


Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

by Electra_Heart



Category: South Park
Genre: Kyman - Freeform, M/M, Mpreg, Omegaverse, creek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6688006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electra_Heart/pseuds/Electra_Heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He moved mechanically, made his way through the front office, sat in a beat up plastic chair with his head in his hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, alarms went off-- the ‘what the fuck am I doing here?’ alarms. </p><p>     Kyle glanced at a little boy sitting next to him, and watched the kid clutch his mother’s blouse sleeve and sniffle softly. And clarity struck Kyle. He knew what he had driven here for. The maternal ache inside of him was a gaping wound, and it only got wider and wider as the days went by. It was killing him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There are two things I swore to myself that I would never write: mpreg, and South Park fan fiction. I have no shame left apparently. Oh well.  
> Also, yes, Doctor Mcguy is the name I came up with because I suck at names. I am aware that it is ridiculous. Please forgive me.

The TV screen blurred into a white mess as Kyle’s eyes unfocused. Static floated past his ears. He could feel the nausea creeping up his throat again. Silently, he prayed to god he wouldn’t puke, a desperate whisper on his lips. This would mark, what, the sixth time he’d have emptied his stomach? He’d lost track at this point. 

    The god-awful feeling had started up around lunchtime, just barely there. Then, as the day went by, it only grew more distracting. He had reached a point where he couldn’t concentrate on any of his paperwork, and the harsh fluorescent light of his office only made it worse. When he caught himself calculating how fast he could run to the bathroom without emptying his breakfast all over the floor...well, that was where he had drawn the line. He’d left the accounting firm early. No use in sitting around trying not to throw up again for the remainder of the day. He’d signed out while the secretary, Pam, was on break, and then he’d made a run for it to the parking lot. The last thing he wanted, besides puking of course, was being intercepted by his boss and having to explain himself.

    At home, Kyle had huddled miserably under the scruffy old couch throw. Bad daytime television and thumping from the upstairs neighbors kept him company. A few solitary hours went by, dizzy and fleeting. Time felt like an abstract concept, sitting there under the fleece blanket, staring at a TV that had slipped into crackly white noise. Before he knew it, six thirty had rolled around.

    Almost on cue, Eric whirled in like a briefcase-clad hurricane. He moved in quick jabs, pulling his coat off instead of shrugging out of it. Kyle watched with a bemused expression as Eric hung it over the hook beside the door, instead of dumping it on the ground like he usually did in Kyle’s presence; After all, any opportunity to get a rise out of him was never left unseized. 

    Eric looked up and said, “Huh. You’re home early,” as if just noticing his presence. Kyle hmmed from his spot on the sofa, and pulled the checked blanket tighter around his shoulders. He didn’t want to open his mouth to say anything, just in case his lunch came spilling out instead. 

    Eric strode across the room and pressed cold fingers to his forehead. Kyle flinched at the contact.

    “Well well. No fever.” Eric gave him a disappointed look. “You shouldn’t ditch work, Kyle. I don’t want my dear mother thinking I’m married to a lazy douchebag.”

Kyle rolled his eyes.

    “Your shoes,” he scowled.

     “What?” 

     “You didn’t take your shoes off at the door,” he explained through gritted teeth. “That’s the rule, remember? We take our shoes off at the door.”

    Eric sighed dramatically and stomped back towards the door. With each footfall, he purposely rubbed his shiny dress loafers into the carpet. When he reached the door, he untied his shoes impossibly slow, starring Kyle down the entire time. 

 “There, are you satisfied, your highness?” 

    “Yes, you asshole. I like it when my kingdom is orderly,” Kyle snapped, though there wasn’t much venom behind it. He was too tired to bother with sounding sincere. 

    A wave of nausea hit him then, and he groaned. He wrapped his arms tight around his middle, curling closer into himself. He screwed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw as he attempted to swallow away the sensation. When it eased up a bit, he opened his eyes to find Eric stooped over him, eyebrows drawn together in worry. 

     Kyle regarded him curiously, watched as he straightened and disappeared into the kitchen. 

    A moment later, Eric returned with a mug of something hot. The steam danced off of it in silver ribbons, fading into the air. 

    “Drink this.” He instructed softly, holding it out. Kyle reached for it, but Eric caught his wrist, and pulled the sleeve of his sweater over the palm of his hand. 

    “Careful. It’s, uh, it’s hot.”

     Kyle stared down into the amber color. The heat rose into his face and stuck to his cheeks, pleasantly humid. It smelled earthy.

    “What is it?” 

    “It’s ginger tea. It’ll help.”

    Kyle took a sip even though he knew it would burn his tongue. He leaned forward and set the mug down carefully on the coffee table. Then, he reached up and tugged Eric down by his fancy silk tie, kissed him softly on the scruffy underside of his jaw. 

    “Thank you. That’s really sweet.”

    Eric rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome, your majesty,” he grinned.

    Kyle pulled back, tugged his sleeves over his hands and scooped up the mug of tea, enjoying the aesthetic of Eric’s face dusted pink. 

     It was kind of ridiculous how they still kept up the relentless bickering. They were married, after all. Their third anniversary had passed a few weeks ago. Old habits die hard, Kyle figured. He took another sip from the mug. The taste was sharp, but it was mellowed slightly with a hint of honey. It seemed to help his stomach a little, as Eric promised.

    Eric sat beside him and put his feet up on the coffee table. He stretched his arms over his head, catlike. Kyle reached for the remote, and began flipping through channels. Eventually, they settled on a rerun of the third Iron Man movie. 

    Kyle shifted closer to Eric, pressed his face into the massive warmth that was his husband. Eric put an arm around him and leaned closer, resting his cheek against Kyle’s curls. Kyle closed his eyes. The noise of TV rang sharper. Kyle’s head pounded in a sudden rush. He could still see the glow of the screen behind his eyelids, and it suddenly seemed overwhelmingly bright.

    In a dizzying frenzy, Kyle pushed away and threw the blanket off his lap, dashing to the bathroom. He nearly missed the toilet bowl before he began puking. Over and over, his body seized up, his throat constricting until there was nothing left in his stomach. He took a shaky breath, and swiped at the mess on his face with his forearm. Disgusting, yes, but he didn’t care. As soon as he caught his breath, he began dry heaving. His mouth gaped as his body tried to force something out, but there wasn’t anything left and  _ oh god _ it was  _ definitely  _ what death must feel like. 

    “Hey, breath, c’mon.” 

   Eric’s hand rubbed circles into his back, rhythmic and gentle. Kyle fought the ongoing urge to gag. He moaned in anguish, and reached up with a shaking hand to flush the toilet. Then he closed the lid, closed his eyes, rested his head against the bowl. The cool porcelain was soothing against his forehead. Maybe he’d just stay here the rest of the night.

 

    “Feel better now?” Eric asked softly. Raw concern was so rare and uncharacteristic, coming from him, that Kyle had to crack an eye open, look at his face as he nodded. Eric continued rubbing his back, his fingers running over the dips of Kyle’s spine. 

   “Let me just, I just need to get into bed,” Kyle rasped. Using the toilet as leverage, he hoisted himself up. His legs wobbled, and then he went cascading towards the ground. 

    “Whoa!” Eric cried, catching him by the shoulders before he collided with the floor. “Holy shit,” he laughed.

    “W-wait, hold on let me just-”

    “Stop, Kyle. Jesus. I’m taking you to the ER. You need to get this shit checked out,” Cartman sighed. “You nearly fainted just now.”

    “No, I’m fine, I promise! I just need to get into bed,” Kyle protested.

    Ignoring him, Eric gathered Kyle up into his arms. Kyle huffed in annoyance, feeling like a pitiful damsel in distress. Nevertheless, he slumped in Eric’s hold, defeated. He gave Eric a sour look as he was set down onto the couch, but his anger thawed away a bit when he took into account how careful Eric was being with him. It was a nice change from the usual quarreling and backhanded comments they constantly shot at each other. It was starting to seem as if arguing was all they ever did these days. 

    “Put this on,” Eric instructed, tossing Kyle’s coat into his lap. Kyle flopped his left arm over the side of the couch and watched his husband put on a pair of sneakers. Eric looked up and sighed indignantly.

    “Okay, okay, come here.”

    Eric helped him sit up, guided his arms through the sleeves and buttoned it up. He scooped Kyle into his arms like a pile of fresh warm laundry. Kyle nestled against the pillowy spot right above Eric’s collar bone--his favorite spot. At this point, Kyle felt too out of it to feel patronized. He allowed himself to be carried through the parking garage, even though people could see them. He even let Eric lay him across the back seat of his car.

    His heart thudded audibly as Eric smoothed some curls off his face and strapped him in. Then the car pulled out of the lot, and snow stuck to the windows as they drove, and Kyle noted absentmindedly that he had forgotten to take his hat. 

 

~~~

 

    “Your test results are back, Mister Broflovski.” 

    Doctor McGuy stood before the pair of them, holding a manilla folder and looking afraid. Kyle glanced at Eric, and squeezed his hand nervously. 

   “I’d like to speak with you alone.”

    “Excuse me? Whatever you have to say to Kyle can be said in front of his  _ husband _ ,” Eric said cooly. The doctor looked even more frantic. Kyle could see the sheen of nervous sweat that had broken out on his balding head. 

   “I’m afraid it isn’t quite simple as that. I assure you we will tell you everything. I just want to run things by Kyle first. I think that would be best, psychologically speaking.”

    “Just say whatever you have to say in front of him, it’s okay.” Kyle said. The doctor shifted on his feet.

    “If you insist, though his reaction wouldn’t be the best thing for you right now, if you aren’t prepared for it.”

    For once Cartman had nothing to say about this. He actually looked a little scared. 

    “Tell me, Kyle. Have you been to a man named Doctor Mephisto lately?” Doctor McGuy asked, and his mouth curled with a hint of disgust when he said the name. 

    Kyle’s heart thudded, so loud he couldn’t hear anything else. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t have worked. He’d gone so long ago...it was impossible that now, after everything, after months and months of coming to terms with himself, that whatever Mephisto had done would’ve worked. 

    Kyle nodded numbly.

    “We’re trying to get his medical license take away, you know. We’ve been lobbying for years. The man’s a crackpot, but he’s also a genius. The board refuses to renounce his license because of how successful his malaria vaccine had been last spring.” 

   Kyle’s mind raced. It was like he had been thrust back in time, back to that old. terrible feeling he got whenever he returned to an empty home. The lonely, quiet hour before Eric came home from work every day. Kyle had no one to fuss over, dote over. No toys littered their living room, there were no sugar cereals in the cabinet. 

_     “Where’s the grandchildren I’ve been waiting for, Kyle. Your mother’s getting older, Bubbalah.”  _

    The same story every time he came home for the holidays. His mom  _ knew _ he couldn’t have kids, and yet she still said shit like that. It hurt so damn bad. Every toddler whining in the supermarket was a stab to the chest. Every mother walking by with a stroller, every dad with a baby on their hip was a stab to the heart.

    He’d told Eric about it. Eric said they could get a cat, and Kyle knew he didn’t get it. Knew he didn’t want kids like Kyle did. 

    So he’d gone to Doctor Mephisto. The old scientist back in his hometown, the one he’d almost forgotten about. Mephisto, the most controversial guy on the planet. Kyle had heard about the malaria cure while on the way to work, over the radio. He was sipping from a latte, lost in his thoughts at a red light. He knew that name from somewhere, and then it had clicked.

    Nothing was off limits for Mephisto, he remembered. The man stopped at nothing to reach success, no matter how unethical his procedure method.

    “I hear he’ll cure absolutely anything for you for the right amount of money, Jim,” the radio announcer chuckled. 

    “Definitely Chuck. Let’s hope he cures cancer next. And now, the weather.”

_     Absolutely anything.  _

    Kyle had gripped the steering wheel, staring off into space, when the car behind him honked loudly. He’d jumped, and his coffee spilled all over his lap. The light was green now, but he hadn’t been paying attention. 

    Immediately, he called in sick, turned the car around and gotten onto the freeway. He drove six hours with coffee in his lap, through the mountains and backwoods. The sky was impossibly blue. When he pulled up to Mephisto’s lab, it was exactly how it had been when he was a kid. The grass was so green, the air was April crisp. It felt surreal. He moved mechanically, made his way through the front office, sat in a beat up plastic chair with his head in his hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, alarms went off-- the ‘what the fuck am I doing here?’ alarms. 

 

    Kyle glanced at a little boy sitting next to him, and watched the kid clutch his mother’s blouse sleeve and sniffle softly. And clarity struck Kyle. He knew what he had driven here for. The maternal ache inside of him was a gaping wound, and it only got wider and wider as the days went by. It was killing him. 

    A lady in a lab coat called his name, pulling him from his morose thoughts. He followed her down a long corridor, feeling outside of himself.  He refused to look through the observation windows. He didn’t want to bear witness to the facilitated horrors Mephisto called his experiments. 

    They continued to stride on, for what seemed like an eternity. The hallway twisted and turned so often that Kyle had lost track of where they had come from. Finally, they stopped in front of a keypad. Lab-coat-lady pushed a lock of black hair behind her ear, and pressed her thumb to a tiny rectangular screen. A small hum sounded, and then the door clicked open. 

    “This is where we part,” she had said, giving him a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Kyle nodded in a way that seemed grim, though he hadn’t meant for it to be. Then he stepped into Mephisto’s office. 

    Mephisto aged the way Kyle had expected him to; balding, liver spots speckling his skin, and an even wider girth than before. The man stood from a huge leather desk chair, and adjusted his horrendous hawaiian shirt, smiling big. All the uneasiness Kyle had been holding back come flooding through him. They shook hands. Mephisto had a fat gold ring on each of his fingers, and his handshake was clammy. 

    “Long time no see, Mister Broflovski. You’ve grown up to be quite a handsome young man, I have to say.Though I’m surprised to see your face in my office again, all things considered.”

     Kyle ignored that last bit, and congratulated him on the Malaria cure. Mephisto’s eyes flashed with the praise. Kyle wondered what in hell’s name possessed him to come here. When he stared down at the ground, he realized belatedly that his pants were still coffee stained from his earlier spill. Utterly pathetic. 

    Mephisto was so overly curious, and Kyle was distraught. When asked for his reason for coming here, he told Mephisto everything. It came out like word vomit. 

    He wanted a baby with Cartman’s eyes, and his charming smile. He wanted a baby with his mother’s red curls and his father’s gentle reserve. He wanted a kid, his own kid. Adoption wouldn’t do it. He knew it was terrible, knew that there were so many kids in the world in need of loving parents to adopt them. But he was obsessed. Selfishly obsessed with his idea of a perfect little family to call his own. 

    When he finished his rant, his chest was heaving, and he had to catch his breath. Mephisto seemed deep in thought, leaning against his desk with a contemplative hand on his chin.  

    After a moment he simply said, “I see. Let’s see what we can do for you.” And then they had taken a whole bunch of tests and done a thousand painful procedures. The whole thing went on long enough that by the end, Kyle felt defeatedly indifferent. The entire thing went by in a blur. 

    Then there were the medical details. Mephisto had implanted a makeshift uterus in front of his intestines, and the whole thing had only taken a half hour. It was unnaturally painless, and Kyle wondered exactly how much medical progress Mephisto had made without sharing his research with the world. The man probably only unveiled something every now and then to keep his lab funded. 

    It was a good thing Kyle and Eric had sex the night before, because Mephisto was able to gather trace DNA samples. He put a petri dish in a microwave and told Kyle that once this was up in his fancy new uterus, he would know within a week whether he was pregnant or not.

    Within a week, Kyle was not pregnant. He was just one hundred thousand dollars in debt and even more miserable and hopeless than before. Eric had tried to get him to talk, just to explain what was wrong. Kyle definitely owed him as much, though Eric seemed to figure it out for himself, by the way Kyle gazed longingly at couples with children and any newborn baby they seemed to come into contact with. 

    Luckily, he never pushed the subject.

   But now, in the hospital bed, the walls Kyle had built around his psyche were crumbling like graham crackers in a toddler’s fist. The mention of Mephisto twisted his gut. 

    “Yeah. Mephisto, the malaria vaccine. I know about him.” Kyle swallowed thickly, his eyes darting around the room. 

    “Wait, you mean that crackhead scientist back in South Park? The one who was obsessed with ass?” Eric asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow.

    Yes,” Doctor McGuy said. “The one and only.”

    Kyle’s hands shook. He stuffed them under the blankets he had been given, squirmed uncomfortably on his gurney. “Well...Well, what about him?”

    “We called him, he’s the only one who could’ve done...what’s happened to you. Kyle, I don’t know how else to say this, so I’m just going to say it how it is. You’re...uhm...almost, well, you’re almost two months pregnant.”

    “Very funny, doctor. That’s not even funny. Cut the crap and just tell me what’s going on. If it’s cancer or whatever I can probably handle it,” Eric sighed. Kyle could see the annoyed disbelief in his eyes. He scooted away from Eric, drawing in on himself.

    “I wish I was lying,” Doctor McGuy said, tugging at his collar awkwardly. Kyle felt like the whole world was exploding. He was overjoyed, but mostly terrified. Terrified of Eric’s wrath, terrified that this baby was such an anomaly that it wouldn’t be a surprise if it came out of the womb with three heads.

    “Kyle, what the fuck is he saying?” Eric hissed. “You can’t be serious. Guys can’t get pregnant!. That’s...that’s fucked up, that’s against, like, the laws of nature and stuff!,” he seethed

     Kyle couldn’t look him in the eye.

    “Look at me, damn it! Tell me what the hell this is right now!” Eric demanded, hysteria creeping into his tone.

    “They’re not lying. I...I went to Mephisto. I paid him..a lot of money. I was desperate, Eric. You don’t know how fucking badly I need this.”

“OF COURSE I DON’T KNOW. What the fuck, Kyle?! You couldn’t even discuss this with me first?!”

    “DON’T YELL AT ME, YOU ASSHOLE! I JUST WANT US TO BE A FAMILY Every time I come home my mom gives me shit about not giving her grandchildren or whatever! Every time I see a fucking baby in public I die inside!” Kyle shot back, furious tears blurring his vision. He couldn’t remember standing up, but he was pacing back and forth in his little paper hospital gown. The cold linoleum stung his feet through his thin socks. 

    Eric shook his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes, and sucked in a shaking breath.

    “You know, Kyle, for all the bullshit moral speeches you constantly give me, you sure are a dirty, underhanded, piece of shit, fucking hypocrite Jew. Adoption just  _ isn’t enough for you?  _ Getting a pet isn’t FUCKING ENOUGH FOR YOU?” Eric shouted, his voice going raw. “God, you’re so  _ fucking  _ hard to please.  _ Everything has to be absolutely perfect for you _ . I’m not enough, nothing is  _ ever _ good enough. You just  _ have  _ to have the one thing you can’t. I was so fucking right about Jews! You’re all nothing but selfish, sneaky, greedy rats. I cannot fucking  _ believe  _ I married one!” he seethed.

   Kyle hiccuped, angry tears streaming down his face, ugly and revealing. He didn’t know when he had started crying, but he had. It was so unlike him to cry over something like this that it scared him. Nothing in his world made sense anymore. He felt like he was dying and this fucking baby was punching him in the stomach with nausea and he felt so damn alone and exhausted and distraught.

    Doctor McGuy shot Eric a ‘boy, you done it now’ look. The room fell silent. Kyle crumpled into the gurney and held his face in his hands, trying to choke down his tears. It was so fucking humiliating, the crying, in front of this fucking doctor that he didn’t even know. He felt himself hyperventilating, and then there was a hand on his shoulder, a wary touch.

    “Hey, don’t...Don’t cry.. let’s leave. We’ll talk about whatever the hell this is in the morning.” Eric said, his voice shaking. The sight of Kyle crying was slightly terrifying. Kyle never cried, not hysterically, like this.

    “I’m not going home with the man who announced that he wished he never married me,” Kyle growled. He looked up at Eric blearily, anger and betrayal, and, most of all, hurt, shining through the wet of his eyes.

    “Hormones,” Doctor McGuy mumbled, rubbing his temples as if the spectacle had given him a headache. 

    “I...I didn’t mean it, okay? Yes, I’m pissed as fuck, and hella confused, but you’re my husband. Too fucking bad.” He grabbed Kyle by the wrist and pulled him up. “Let’s talk about this at home.”

    Kyle nodded numbly. He hadn’t even brought shoes to the hospital; they had been too preoccupied to worry about that. He still didn’t let Cartman carry him over the snow in the parking lot, though. He was too angry, too disgusted. 

    Needless to say, the drive home was hell. The tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Kyle wanted to cut it with a fucking chainsaw, just wanted to hurt  _ something  _ because of what Eric had said to him. He couldn’t fucking believe it...but then again, he could. He’d brought it upon himself. Eric had every right to be upset. 

    God, he was awful. This had to be the most awful thing Kyle had ever done.

    With his cheek pressed up against the car window, he wondered about his own sanity. If he was even fit to be a parent.

 

~~~~

  
  


    In bed, he feels wide awake. He stares at the wall, and feels cold because Eric is too far away, with his back turned. He feels miserable. More than miserable, dead inside. It’s like someone replaced his organs with beetles, and they’re all just crawling around and biting him from within. He shouldn’t have kept what he had done from Eric. He shouldn’t have taken his own initiative. Eric shouldn’t have said those things. But...Kyle can’t help but believe that he’d meant them….even though Eric has always been a stubborn asshole and will always say stupid things just to rile him up.

    Kyle’s eyelids fall shut, heavy with the weight of the day’s events. He wants nothing more than to succumb to sleep, and he’s almost halfway there when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns over to see Eric staring at him. His gaze is tentative.

    “Can I..?” Eric asks, and his hand drops to Kyle’s abdomen. Kyle nods wordlessly, and Eric moves closer. He pushes Kyle’s shirt up gently, and Kyle adjusts to make it easier for him. His heart flutters as Eric presses a kiss to his stomach, his mouth hot. Kyle melts into it. His face is burning, and he’s grateful for the dark. Everything feels amplified without the lights on. Sounds are clearer, nerves spark too easily. It makes things intimate in a way that they’re not when the lights are on. 

    Kyle can feel the own rise and fall of his his chest, the steady metronome of his heartbeat. He laces his fingers through Eric’s hair, tugging at it gently. Eric looks up at him, brown eyes big and expectant. 

    “I’m sorry. About all of this,” Kyle mumbles, and his voice cracks near the end of it. It sounds a lot more pathetic than he intended, but it’s not like he can swallow back his words anymore, or keep them in his head once they’re out.

    Uncomfortable quiet fills the room for what feels like forever. Right when Kyle is about to turn away, Eric breaks the silence.

    “Bright green eyes. He’s going to have bright green, giant-ass anime eyes, like yours,” Eric says. “And he’s going to have the most annoying sense of moral justice on the planet.” He kisses Kyle’s abdomen again, right in the middle where it tickles, and Kyle squirms away. His inner conflict is slowly unraveling.

    “Maybe...maybe we’ll have a girl. We don’t know,” he remarks quietly. “Maybe she’ll play the viola, like you did back in high school.” 

    Eric laughs, “That was a brief musical stint.” He pauses. “And a fucking mistake.”

    “I always secretly thought you were really good.” 

    They lapse into silence for a minute. Then Eric kisses his neck gently,  then the corner of his mouth. 

      “Stop saying nice shit like that,” Eric mumbles, and his voice sounds raw. Kyle can feel his pulse jumping in his throat. Eric grabs his hands and tugs him out of bed.

    “What are you--”

   “Stop talking, Kyle,” Eric huffs, and he leads him through the dark to their makeshift guest room. Over the months it’s become more of a storage space than an actual bedroom. It’s cluttered with boxes and Kyle nearly trips as they stumble around in the dark. 

    “Hmm...Maybe we’ll paint it baby blue,” Eric muses. “A crib would look nice in that corner by the window,” He says, pointing. Kyle grins. He stands on his tiptoes to kiss Eric on the cheek, and re-laces their fingers together. 

   “I like the name Daniel, if it’s a boy. Maybe Rosie, if it’s a girl,” Kyle suggests. He can picture it, a chubby cheeked, fat little baby girl waddling around the room. A calm fills him, a feeling he hasn’t experienced in a while.

    “I like the name Rosie too. Or maybe Eliza,” Eric says. They situate themselves against a stack of boxes, staring lazily out the oversized windows at the glittering Denver skyline. 

    “Eliza’s cute. We could call her Eli for short.”

    “Or we can call him Eli if it’s a boy.”

    Kyle nods. He can feel his eyelids getting heavy with drowsiness. There’s so many things he wants to say, but he has no clue how to say them. This craziness feels like a dream. But if there’s one thing he knows, as Eric rubs his shoulder and a plane passes by their building overhead, it’s that unexpected things have happened before. He’s married to Eric, for one, and he definitely didn’t see  _ that _ coming. Unexpected things will always happen. But there’s a bittersweetness to everything, and he knows that they’ll be okay. 

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fucking Mephisto...

  
_7 months later_

     As the doctor slips the whimpering bundle into his arms, Eric can feel his heartbeat rushing in his ears. The baby is tiny and warm. It squirms in his hold and cries out shrilly. Panicking, Eric bounces the baby softly, murmuring soothing words in an attempt to calm the infant. The baby's mood simmers down a bit, and it opens its eyes. Its gaze is big and grey and nervous. Eric brushes his thumb over its pink face, and pushes back its cute little hospital hat to reveal a shock of red hair. The baby wraps its tiny fist around its father’s finger.   
     “Wow,” Eric breathes. He glances over to Kyle, who is still unconscious on the operating table. Eric looks down at the baby. Its eyes are closed, and its chest rises and falls softly. A perfect little girl.  
     He can’t believe he and Kyle have a daughter.   
     Eric adjusts the little girl’s hat. Her skin is so soft. He turns to the team of scientists in the room, Mephisto’s team. They all clap heartely, and Eric grins, holding the baby protectively to his chest. A nurse reaches forward to take the baby from him, and he hands it over to her. The team leaves, except for Mephisto himself. Eric pulls down the germ-mask from his face, and brushes his hands on the scrubs they’ve made him wear. Mephisto studies him for a moment, then smiles.   
     “Congratulations, Mister Cartman. I never thought I’d see the day you became a father,” He says. Eric can’t tell if that’s a compliment or not.  
     “Uh, thank you, Doctor Mephisto.”  
     “Just call me Alphonse, kid. I think we can regard ourselves as more than acquaintances, at this point,” he chuckles. Eric nods half-heartedly, stiffening when Mephisto claps him on the shoulder.   
     “I’ll send Shirley to take care of Broflovski over here. We’ll be back with the baby soon enough. Just gotta run some tests, standard procedures and all.”  
     Eric nods, and swallows a nervous lump in his throat. What the fuck do they do now? For some reason, he hadn’t even anticipated anything past this point in time. None of the dog-eared parenting books on his coffee table seem to have prepared him at all. He sighs, wishing Kyle were awake to be the tight-ass, anxious one instead of him.   
     A nurse walks in with an IV pole and a tray full of needles and test tubes. Mephisto whispers something in her ear, and she frowns, watching him trundle off down the dimly lit hallway. She locks eyes with Eric, tucking a blond strand of hair back under her surgical cap. She was one of the nurses present during the birth, he realizes. He steps forward to look over her shoulder, watching her draw some of Kyle’s blood into the many tubes she has on her silver tray. Once she’s finished, she leaves without a word.   
     Eric settles into a plastic folding chair, resting his hands on his thighs and leaning forward. He wonders if Kyle is going to have to wake up in, literally, a pool of his own blood, or if these damn nurses will give them a damn room. For now, his eyes train on the heart monitor beeping steadily on the wall. He glances left, then right. Then, he leans forward and kisses Kyle’s forehead. Just barely. His skin tastes like the salt of sweat, and antiseptic.   
     It feels like he sits there forever before the nurses come back. The whole lot of them lift Kyle’s limp body and set him gently onto a gurney. They put up the side rails and pull a gauzy white blanket over his body.   
      Eric pushes his way forward and slips a hand under Kyle’s head, adjusting the pillows underneath, nervousness clawing at his chest. Kyle’s complexion is grey and his limbs flop around like rags. He looks too close to death for comfort.   
      The nurses push Eric out of the way before he can finish his thoughts.  
      “Ay! Don't shove me like that,” he snaps, but they ignore him and begin to wheel Kyle out of the operating room. Eric bustles after them, the crease between his eyebrows deep with annoyance.   
     The halls are endless here, and Eric wonders just how big Mephisto’s lab really is. The place seems to go on forever, a bottomless stretch of blindingly white walls and drone-like researchers in lab coats.   
     They reach a dead-end and Eric is confused until one of the doctors touches the wall with his finger, and Eric realizes it’s actually a door and the entire wall slides up into the ceiling, disappearing as if it was never there at all.  
Behind the raised wall is a series of closed doors, numbered in the three hundreds. A nurses in bleached-white scrubs unlocks a door marked 316, in a more traditional way, with a key.   
     They wheel Kyle in and sidle the gurney up to a large hospital bed. The team buzzes around him like wasps, sticking monitors over his chest and arms, wrapping a black velcro heart monitor around his middle finger. The screen on the wall comes to life, beeping steadily. A green line peaks and slopes in time with Kyle’s heart beat, and Eric finds this incredibly reassuring.   
     After what feels like a century, the nurses finally leave them alone, striding out uniformly.   
Eric lets out a breath he didn't recall holding, and finally, he has the time to take in his surroundings properly.   
     The walls are bright-white, no surprise there. There's several large screens behind Kyle's bed. One of them is clearly the heart monitor. The others must be there to monitor things that surpass Eric’s medical knowledge. Oddly. There's a framed, oversized mirror on the far wall. Eric wonders why the hell they'd need a mirror in the first place, but he doesn't think much of it.  
     Along the crease between the wall and ceiling are hidden lights that line the perimeter of the room, bathing everything in a sterile shadow. There's a stout lamp resting on a modest nightstand beside the bed. The IV pole stands uniformly to the left of it, like a soldier on guard. A bag filled with turquoise liquid hangs off the hooks at the top. It's the only colorful thing in the entire room, besides Kyle’s hair.  
     Kyle.  
     Eric swallows past the lump in throat and approaches his husband tentatively.   
Kyle looks like he’s been through hell and back, and honestly, he probably has been. His curls are sticky against his forehead, soaked with sweat. His mouth looks dry and his freckles are dull without their usual backdrop of roses cheeks.  
      Carefully, Eric climbs into the bed beside him. Luckily, there's enough room for the both of them.   
     It's comforting to hear Kyle's labored breathing. Eric studies him up close. His eyelashes are as brightly colored as his hair, and they're so long they brush against the tops of his cheekbones. His jaw is so sharply edged, and there's an endearing bump on the bridge of his nose.   
      Even at his worst, Kyle still has a face like a pretty girl. There's no sunlight to illuminate all his features, but that's fine.   
Absentmindedly, Eric wonders why there aren't any windows in the room, knowing that this is the weirdest thing to occur by far. 

  
_______________

 

  
     When Kyle awakens, the first coherent thought in his mind is that positively every inch of his body hurt like a mother. The second thought was he was absolutely ravenous and would die for a burger. The third was that the massive weight clamped against his left side was familiarly warm and protective.   
He glanced to his side, eyes landing on the sight of his sleeping husband.   
     Eric's hair is mussed under a white scrubs cap, his cheeks flush with the heat of sleep. His mouth is slightly parted and Kyle can hear soft snoring over the sound of a beeping heart monitor.   
     Eric's sleep does not look peaceful. There’s a deep, worried crevice in between his brows.   
With a hand shaking from disuse, Kyle uses his thumb to rub at the spot. He watches the tension and ease from his husband’s face, then leans back against the pillows.   
     Exhaustion courses through every part of him. He can't even lift a finger without pain shooting through his side, and he wonders why the damned doctors haven't fed any painkillers through the IV taped to the crease of his elbow.   
      He takes in his surroundings, though there's not much to see. A little lamp is switched on beside him, there's a mirror on the wall, and that's in.   
     Kyle is immediately suspicious of that mirror, because its presence makes absolutely zero sense. He has an uncomfortable feeling that it's really a one way piece of glass. The itch of someone watching him is definitely there. He wishes he could get up to put a finger against it’s surface, test his theory.  
     But every movement is pure agony.  
     Belatedly, he remembers what he's doing here at all- he had just given birth.  
     Jesus.  
     He doesn't even know the baby’s gender.   
     Kyle nudges his elbow into Eric’s side, suddenly desperate for him even though the action sends pain ripping through him.  
     Eric stirs, and his hand instinctively clamps tighter around Kyle’s hip.  
     “FUCK! ERIC MOVE YOUR HAND,” he gasps, stars bursting behind his eyelids. He’s on the verge of passing out from the sensation.   
     “Oh sweet Jesus,” Eric murmurs, jerking his hand away and sitting up. Kyle’s eyes prick with tears, his lip caught between his teeth tightly.   
     “Kyle, oh god… Are you… Are you okay?”   
     “No,” kyle breathes, and clutches Eric's hand, his fingernails digging little crescents into the skin. “Get a doctor, please Eric.”   
     Eric nods and pushes out of bed frantically, racing to the door and grasping the handle.  
It won't move.  
     He tries pushing the door instead of pulling, but it still won't budge.   
     Desperately, he jiggles the handle, growing more and more frantic.  
     “What? What is it?” Kyle calls hoarsely.  
     “The door is locked!”  
     “What?! What do you mean the door is locked?!”  
     “I mean that the fucking door is locked!” He shouts, shoving his shoulder against the door.   
    It's no use.   
     The door is locked, and they're trapped.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter provides some insight to Mephisto's plans for our boys...

     The little bowl-shaped camera stares down at them. The quiet whine of its lens focusing in and out is a constant sound, similar to the sound of a sweater being zipped up quickly.   
     The other sound that fills the room is Kyle's labored breathing as he drifts in and out of sleep. Eric switches between watching Kyle for signs of any fatal internal wounds (or something along those lines), and glaring up at the stupid little camera.  
     It's shaped like a bowler hat, and it looks down at him as pretentiously as one, as if it knows who's in control. Eric raises his middle finger to whoever is watching them, and mutters a string of vile acts he plans to do both to and with Doctor Mephisto's mother.   
But nobody answers him. Eric has no idea how long they've been here, or what time it is. It could be one in the afternoon or one in the morning. Without windows and clocks, he has no way of knowing.   
     From his seat on the ground, in the corner of the small white room, Eric stews in a steaming vat of hate. Pure, unadulterated, hate. He thinks of the time he made Scott Malkinson consume his own parents, and knows that whatever he does to Mephisto, it's going to be the worst, most painful, terrible, awful thing he's ever done to anybody.   
     Mind buzzing with schemes, he nods off into a cold, dreamless sleep.

 

__________

 

  
     A short while after, the door slides open. A young woman in pearly tennis shoes wheels in a stainless steel cart. Her footsteps have no sound.  
     The door slides shut behind her, and the noise of it makes her flinch. It's only loud because everything else is in the room is so silent.   
     Broflovski appears to be asleep. He seems fitful and agitated. She jots this down on her clipboard, and moves to take his pulse. This, she writes down too. She draws blood from the IV in the patient's arm, pockets it, and turns to leave before the two of them have the chance to wake up.  
     Out of nowhere, a hand shoots out and locks around her wrist. She stifles a startled yelp and turns back to Broflovski, whose eyes are wide open.   
     "I need pain killers," he rasps. "Please."  
     She shakes her head, trying to keep her heart from popping out of her ribs. This wasn't supposed to happen _. The doctor had told her that he was certain they'd stay asleep._  
     "Please," he begs, more a whisper this     time. "How can you be so senselessly cruel?"  
     She shakes off his grasp, which was weak to begin with, a pulls out a key ring from her pocket. It jingles like a wind chime in her hand, its facets catching the light.  
     Kyle watches with glassy eyes and she moves to unlock a door he didn't even know existed, tucked away at the edge of the far wall.   
     She walks back to him wordlessly. Her mouth is covered by a paper germ mask, and a single brown lock of hair has fallen out of her vinyl cap.   
     He studies her.   
     She has blue eyes, the type that should be deep – but hers are stony and unreadable.   
     Kyle feels a flash of familiarity. It's only there for a second, gone the next. He watches her leave.  
     The only clear thought in his mind is that she had never given him anything for the pain.  
     He realizes in that moment that he needs Eric more than anything. If he isn't numbed, at least his husband can help him grin and bear his miserable, shitty fate.  
     "Eric," Kyle hisses. Eric is fast asleep, passed out against the wall.  
     "Eric!," he says again, loudly this time.   
     Kyle watches as Eric begins to stir, pulling languidly out of his sleep. His eyes crack open and he yawns widely, but not noisily. He rubs at his eyes and blinks up at Kyle, who peers down at him.   
     "Good morning. I think," Eric mumbles.   Kyle smiles but his face quickly falls.   
    "Eric, there was a nurse here before."  
    "What?!," Eric exclaims, suddenly wide awake. "Really?!"  
    "Yeah, she woke me up. Wouldn't give me any medication or anything, just unlocked that door over there and left," Kyle says flatly. “I think it must be the bathroom.”   
    "That fucking bitch."  
     "I know."  
     Eric stands and leans over Kyle, and he doesn't look concerned for him anymore. There's only slow, bubbling anger in his eyes.   
     With the small amount of strength he has, Kyle reaches forward and takes Eric's hand.   
     "Did you see the baby?," he asks softly, terrified the answer will be no.  
     Something changes in Eric's face. His jawline goes soft and there's a warmth to his gaze, just from the question alone.  
     "I did, Kyle. She's a perfect, teeny little girl."  
     "Tell me about her," he says quietly.   
     Eric pushes down the side rail of the bed and sits on the edge. It's too small for the both of them to share comfortably, and he doesn't want to bump against Kyle and put him in crippling pain for the next 24 hours. Instead, Eric settles for this.   
     He plays with Kyle's curls. They're damp with sweat and blood, but he doesn't care. After a few minutes, he begins to talk.  
     "She's got the biggest eyes. They're huge, but I don't think she's used to light because she kept them closed for most of the ten minutes that I actually held her. Her skin is pink, and her fingers are so small. She's so fucking perfect, Kyle."  
     Kyle closes his eyes. The heat of Eric's fingers in his hair feels nice. They stay like that for a moment, not speaking but still saying everything there is to say.  
     "I swear we're going to get out of here, Kyle. I swear to you. And we're going to bring Mephisto to court and sue his fucking balls off."  
     "How do you expect to get out of here when I can't move?" Kyle asks, his voice floating as if his mind is somewhere else.  
     Eric grits his teeth.  
     "We'll find a way."  
     Kyle opens his eyes and looks up at him with such intensity that it catches Eric completely off guard.   
     "I think I know why they didn't give me any morphine or codeine. They don't want me to recover. They don't want us to leave without getting whatever it is that they want. We have to give them what they want, Eric. Until then we'll be stuck here."  
     "Well what the fuck do they want!?"  
     "I don't know," Kyle answers softly.   
     Eric stands and begins pacing back and forth.   
     He stops in front of the mirror, pulls his fist back, and punches it with everything he has.  
     "FUCK," he screams. He clutches his throbbing hand to his chest. He had expected the glass to shatter but he hadn't even left a single crack.  
     He’s distracted from his rage as a sudden crackling sound fills the room.   
    “Settle down now. That glass is 100% shatter-proof and it will do you no good to attempt smashing it,” Mephisto’s voice says, over what seems to be a hidden loudspeaker.  
     “What the fuck do you want from us, you fucking asshole?” Eric spits. His demeanor is eerily calm and doesn't match his tone. Kyle knows that’s only because Eric is coming up with each and every slow and painful way to torture Alphonse Mephisto.  
     “What I want, Eric, is to know why it is that my experiment with Broflovski turned out to be successful. I am a man of scientific inquiry, as I'm sure you know. And as any man with questions, I want answers. Until I complete my studies, I cannot allow you to get in the way. You wouldn't want to get in the way of science, would you?”   
     Mephisto doesn't pause to receive an answer to his rhetorics.  
     “If the specimen survives my testing, and the both of you cooperate, you will be free to go. If you cause me trouble in any way, I will personally see to it that you never lay eyes on the child ever again.”  
     With that, the intercom clicks off, leaving them with nothing but a thin hum of static and overactive, horrified imaginations.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I'm currently writing three fics at once so I'm trying to balance my writing time between all of them.

Not too far off in another part of Park County, the local police station resides on the street corner. It’s the town's oldest building, dating back to the early 1930's. Unfortunately, it is not very grand in its architecture. Calling it charming would be a very kind overstatement.    
    No, it was a depressing hunk of brick and stucco, and on a day like today, the color of the sky was a fitting backdrop -- a cloudless, muted grey-blue.   
    Chief of Police Craig Tucker lunched at a pink frosted sprinkled donut, deep within his office. His feet were propped up on his trusty, humongous oak desk. The thing was such a heavy piece that Clyde and the other guys had a running bet over whether or not it would eventually fall through the floor.   
    It was a good desk, sturdy and reliable, obnoxiously large in a way that made Craig feel smugly satisfied. He crossed his legs the other way, resting his right ankle over the left. The documents underneath his heels crinkled.    
    Craig crammed the rest of the donut into his mouth, eyes unfocused and staring out the window. Nobody was roaming the street because it was mid winter and witches' tit cold. Yet another dead day for the police of South Park.   
    Any outsider might look at Craig and they'd see the dark shadow of a jaw in need of shaving, greasy fingers, tired eyes belonging to a single 26 year old stuck in a small town with an even smaller paycheck. Any outsider, even those bad at math, would add all these factors up and come to the conclusion that Craig was a textbook definition of the word plateau.    
    So yeah, maybe. Craig never gave it much thought. He knew he ought to be grateful that his job was practically useless, because that meant his town had a low crime rate, which made him look very good without having to do much of anything at all. The mayor also bought them complimentary donuts from Tweak Bros. Sure it was kind of force-feeding the cliche, but free donuts are free donuts.  Luckily, Craig had always had a wonderfully fast metabolism, and his endless packing away of all the sugar and carbs and fat barely showed at all.    
    His partner on the force, Clyde Donovan, was not so lucky in this respect. His forearms and calves were pleasantly thick, and he had the beginnings of a double-chin (though it was more of a soft jawline than anything). It didn't bother Clyde. Nothing really bothered Clyde. He was a simple, happy guy.   
    Craig supposed he should be jealous of this, but in all honestly, he has his own ways of maintaining inner peace.

    Keeping tabs on the people was like a form of Xanax to Craig. Knowing everything people did helped him predict what they might do next. Part of the reason that South Park was so free of crime, besides for being such a tiny town, was that Craig was always one step ahead of everybody else. He knew what a potential criminal was plotting before the person knew it themselves. It also helped to know that his mom was safe when she went shopping for groceries, and that his sister wasn’t getting felt up by the guys in her college unconsentually.    
    The process of keeping tabs on everybody was like second nature at this point. Craig’s investigative hobbies continuously flourished. 

    There's several people he checks up on daily, family members aside. This includes but is not limited to, the infamous Mysterion, the Tweak family drug ring, crackpot-doctor Alphonse Mephisto, blundering idiot Randy Marsh, and last-but-not-least, Linda and Stephen Stotch.

    He decides to check up on the Stotch family today, and this is because he knows that both Stephen and Linda haven't shown up to their respective jobs this morning. 

    Craig leans forward and swings his legs off the tabletop, sending his car insurance forms fluttering to the floor. Craig dusts his hands off on his pants and unclips his key ring from his belt loop.    
    He selects a small, unassuming brass key, and inserts it into the lock on the bottom drawer of his desk. The tumblers slide apart silently, and then Craig pulls out an old MacBook, a composition notebook, and a file holder stuffed thicker than a turkey on Thanksgiving.   
    It makes a satisfying thunk when Craig sets it down. He flicks his lamp on and starts the laptop up.    
    After entering his password, he pulls up a folder hidden in a cache of his high school graduation photos. 

    This particular folder is his most important one, because it contains an ocean of live-streaming footage of every corner in the town. 

    Craig makes his daily rounds from the comfort of his desk. He checks the more public areas first; the lot at the community center, the playground, the library. 

    The grainy, undisturbed images assure him that everything is fine and none of his fellow citizens are in danger.

    But he already knew that – he had really dug up the security cams because there was something that disturbed him deeply, ever since the previous night.

    His cams were rigged to alert him of any suspicious activity. They were high tech and specially ordered in from D.C. 

    His phone had woken him up in the middle of the night, yanking him from his sleep with a powerfully blaring alarm. 

    Craig had groggily checked the source of the disturbance on his phone, then googled the coordinates.

    They had led to the Stotch residence, one of the cameras in the backyard. 

    Annoyed, but dutiful nonetheless, Craig had gone to the kitchen to check the live feed from his home computer.

    Eerily, the Stotch’s yard was nothing but a blank sheet of white. Nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. Thick flurries of snow were coming down hard, and they clogged the camera’s lens slightly. But Craig could clearly see that there was nothing wrong going on. No footprints, no voices. No lights on in the house.

    He had gone back to sleep with a sense of unease. But his eyes didn't lie – there was nothing happening there.

    Now, holed up in his office, Craig was certain he had missed something. Part of the reason he was such a good cop was that he had a keen eye and an even keener sense of persistence. If his gut told him that something was up, he double-checked things, and then checked them again for good measure.

    When he opens up the live stream of the Stotches’ home, the blinding white sunlight shining into the camera stuns him. He rubs his eyes and squints. All that sunlight bouncing off the snow makes it hard to see anything….but there's a dark patch by the tool shed that definitely was not there the night before. 

    Craig zooms up on the spot, unpleasantly surprised to see that the patch is actually crimson colored. There are two lumps beneath the otherwise flat snow, and it doesn't take a genius to do the math; blood plus suspicious human-shaped mounds in the earth equals dead bodies.

    A double homicide.

  
  


___________

  
  


    The baby fusses loudly in her medical-grade bassinet. Her fists are curled tightly, face pink with rage. The noise is loud enough to be heard through the supposedly sound-proof walls.

    Mephisto’s mouth twists with distaste. He sets down the syringe he’s been messing with and turns to the nurse beside him. 

    “Karen, go take care of that, will you?”

    Karen is eager to handle the newborn, but she tries hard to keep a stoic face.

    “Yes, sir. I'll see to that right away, sir,” she mumbles, and grabs her keycard from the lab table quickly. 

    By the time she gets past the multiple security systems, the baby's sobs have simmer down to a melancholic, lonely whimper.

    Karen sterilizes her hands and picks the baby up.

    The child is feather-light. Karen knows that she only weighs five pounds and six ounces, an itty bitty little thing. 

    Karen coos softly, trying to calm the baby down. It's all very nerve-wracking; holding a crying baby elicits the same feelings as holding a live bomb. 

    After what feels like forever, it finally seems that Karen has successfully deactivated the colic fit. 

    Underneath her germ-mask, the young nurse smiles. This is closer to the things she pictured for her future, back when she was in med school – not all the barely-legal crap Mephisto has her do.

    Her intention was to heal. The Hippocratic Oath was there to set that intention in stone.

    Becoming a nurse was supposed to cut out all the bits of her that still clung to her past. It was supposed to prove to all the people that told her she’d be nothing but white-trash forever that they were wrong. 

    “Karen!”

    The doctor’s voice startles her enough to make her jump. The sudden movement starts the baby crying again.

    “Can we run some tests on the specimen or are you just going to stand there coddling it all day?,” Mephisto barks.

    Karen stares up at the observation window, trying to hold back the sass she wishes she could spit at him.

    “I think I should feed her first, she seems hungry.”

    “Well, get on with it then. I'm not getting any younger,” Mephisto chuckles. The intercom clicks off and he turns, walking away. Karen flips him off.

 

_____

  
  


    After watching the same damn Captain America movie nearly 18 times, Kyle is sure that he can recite every line by memory. The worst part is that Winter Soldier used to be one of his favorite movies, but now he fucking  _ hates  _ it.

    The only upside is that it distracts him from the pain. It's not hd, the DVD player looks like it belongs in 2006, but nevertheless, it distracts him well enough.

    Every so often Kyle spaces out, his thoughts get dark and his mind floats to insidious places, and all the pain comes flooding back through him. 

    He’s managed to move enough to let Eric lay beside him on the small bed. The agony of doing something as simple as scooting over caused him to nearly black out –but somehow he had managed.

    The video machine balances precariously on Eric’s stomach. Every time Eric inhales, the thing threatens to tip over and clatter to the floor, but by some miracle this hasn't happened yet. 

    “I'm so fucking sick of seeing Chris Evans throw frisbees,” Eric sighs. He looks at Kyle, whose eyes are glassy and unfocused. His mind is somewhere else.

    “Hey. Kyle.”

    No answer.

    “You okay there…?”

    “Huh? What?” Kyle blinks, returning from wherever the hell he'd been floating off to.

    “Nothing. You just looks really depressed and it’s seriously getting me depressed too. And one of has to stay sane here if we're going to find a way out of this shithole.”

    “It's a pretty state-of-the-art shithole if you ask me,” Kyle mutters. “You think they'd at least be wealthy enough to give us something better than a piece of technology that belongs in a museum.”

    “They don't want to give us good things. Good things have Internet, Kyle. And Internet means we can contact people from the outside. That's a big no-no for  _ these  _ assholes.”

    Kyle gets quiet for a minute.

    “I wish I could talk to my mom,” he murmurs.

    Eric doesn't really know what to say to that. The sadness in Kyle’s voice is raw, and he understands it completely. He wishes he could speak with his mom too. He wants to let her know she's a grandmother, that he's finally given her something.

    But he can't – and now he probably won't  _ ever  _ be able to give her that, because lord knows what these heathens doing to the baby.

    Eric pushes the video player shut. Carefully, he takes Kyle’s hand. The feeling is warm and familiar and secure. 

    “We’ll get the baby back, Kyle. Whatever it takes. I don't care if I have to murder every single fucker in this entire compound with my bare hands. I'll do it anyways.”

    “Eric, don't be unrealistic,” Kyle says. His tone is stiff and calm. “We're not leaving this situation victorious. We're positively, one hundred percent, completely screwed. Just… We should just lower our expectations to minimize the emotional damage, you know?”

    Eric is about to answer when the door opens. He's effectively silenced as a nurse, the same one as last time, wheels in a cart full of dinner. The scent of fake mashed potatoes and store-bought chicken marinade fill the room.

    Then, as she's setting the food down, the oddest thing happens. Eric barely believes himself as she slips a folded sheet of notebook paper under one of the plates. 

    She leaves before he has the chance to stop her.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to start off by saying thank you to all of you who took the time to read this, and especially to those who leave me feedback. Seeing those kudos and comments make me feel appreciated<3  
> I'd also like to apologize if this story seems a little bit disjointed. It was originally meant to be a one-shot so the plot is kind of jumpy from the second chapter on.  
> Lastly, the previous chapter sort of ties this fix together with another one that I have, called [The Mysterion Distress Signal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7843105). Check it out if you want, I might expand on that drabble too.

The mike screeched with feedback, causing the small group of people to wince and cover their ears. Kenny McCormick kept his hands to his sides.   
    The sea of black tuxedos and chiffon dresses seemed to swallow him whole in their blackness. Nearly everybody who had ever lived in South Park had shown up to pay their respects at this funeral – yet still, their numbers were small.    
     Up at the front of the crowd, Butters Stotch, more commonly known as Leo in his adulthood, smiled nervously.    
    The expression was so saccharine fake, yet so wholly expected. That's what made this funeral so pathetic. That even in death, those close to Linda and Stephen Stotch weeped false tears. It seemed inevitable for two master manipulators to meet an end like this one –freezing their asses off in discount coffins, six feet under.   
    Kenny suppressed his laughter over the irony over the situation, and turned his attention to the podium. Giggles would be highly inappropriate, and he knew he owed Butters (he'd always be Butters to Kenny) his unwavering support.   
    "My Mom and Dad were the most loving, devoted parents you'd ever seen," Butters began, his voice trembling.   
    (Lies.)   

 "There's never going to be another set of people like the two of them. The world has lost a couple a' angels to god on this sunny morning."   
   ( Lies.)   

  "My father raised me with a firm but loving hand."   
   (Partially lies, at least the loving part.)  

  "My mother always smelled like vanilla. She had the softest, blondest hair in the whole town."   
    Well, that seemed to be the only truth in Butters’ entire speech. Kenny zoned out as the procession continued, until Butters switched the mike off and stepped down, eyes drier than anybody else's in attendance.   
    When the sparse group followed the hearse out to the burial sight, Kenny tried to catch Butters’ eye, but his efforts seemed to be futile. It was almost as if Butters was intentionally avoiding him.    
    (That made perfect sense.)  

   As the coffins were lowered into the unforgiving earth, Kenny stood beside his sister. It seemed his older brother, Kevin, was too self-important to show up, but both of their parents were there, standing not too far behind them.   
    Kenny felt a pang of sadness over his mom and dad's very real sobs. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose a friend – it was very the reason he’d always worked alone as Mysterion.   
    Today there was no sadness from Kenny for these people. Linda and Stephen Stotch were abusive parents at best and sorry excuses for human beings at worst. The treated Butters like dirt, an unimportant part of them that they wielded control over. 

  Lord knows the psychological damage Butters had. Even Kenny felt he was more sane than Butters – and he had literally gone to hell and back on countless occasions.    
    Beside him, Karen wasn't weeping either. She was certainly more clever than their mom and dad, and it didn't take a genius to see Linda and Stephen for who they were.   
    Kenny assumed that the only reason people attended this funeral was either to support Butters, or because they were too dense to see past the Stotch façade.    
      People around him begin brushing the frost off their boots, now. The performance is over, and it's time for them to climb back into their cars and get on with their lives. Kenny wonders belatedly where the hell Kyle and Cartman are. Eric's enough of a jackass not to show up, but it's weird that Kyle hasn't come. He wouldn't miss something like this.   
    Kenny debates going over and saying something to Butters, since he's already chatting with their mutual buddy, Stan, but his sister taps him on the shoulder and breaks him away from his thoughts.   
    "What, Karen?," he snaps, feeling unusually bitter.   
    "Didn't you hear me the first time? I said… I said that there's something we need to talk about."   
    (He definitely had not heard her the first time.)         "What is it?"   
    Karen's eyes dart around like a shoplifter checking for witnesses.   
    "We can't talk about it here," she says under her breath.    
    Kenny's brows furrow, more in annoyance than confusion.   
    "Okay, let's go to my car," he suggests. Karen nods, and the two of them make their way through the iced-over parking lot.   
    They tuck themselves into Kenny's pickup, and he immediately turns on the ignition and cranks up the heat.   
    "So tell me," he says, turning to face her. "What's the secret worth keeping from our lovely neighbors?" He jams his thumb to the window behind him, where the remaining attendees are dicking around under the church awning.   
    Karen bites her lip, then opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again.    
    Now Kenny's starting to get a little worried. Karen is usually so easygoing. He can't remember the last time he'd seen her this way. If something's bugging her it must be serious.   
    "Hey," he says softly, tucking his sisters’ overgrown bangs behind her ear. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"   
    Karen gives a biting laugh.   
   "It's not like that, Ken. I just... I have no idea where I should even begin."   
    "C'mon, Care-Bear. You're killing me here, what is it?"   
    "You haven't called me Care-Bear since I was ten," she smiles.    
    "You're still Care-Bear to me, Karen," he grins. "Just tell me what's driving you so crazy, maybe I can help."   
   "That's the problem," she sighs. "I don't know if I should be getting you involved in this. But at this point I don't think I have a choice."   
    And then she launches into the surreal events that had occurred in the past few weeks – how two of his childhood friends turned up at the facility she worked at and the way they had flipped everything on its head. 

    Karen realizes that the story seems even more bizarre when she hears herself saying it aloud, and for a minute she's worried Kenny will think she's fucking with him. It certainly sounds like she is. By the end of the discourse her cheeks are red with the sheer amount of stress the situation has put her under.   
    Working in the medical field was not supposed to be this way.  
    She glances up at her brother fearfully. Truthfully, any reaction to her story will probably be one she doesn't want. It's nearly impossible to listen to something like that without feeling incredulous.   
    Kenny blinks at her and she knows that he is deciding how he should feel. But, hopefully, he can actually _do something_. She knows that he works in Denver on some hot-shot police force, that he's more than capable of saving the day.  
     But even more than that, he's her big brother.  
    "I can't... I can't just storm in there like a comic-book superhero," Kenny chokes out. "And Kyle and Cartman??? Cartman??? Are you sure they're the ones... I'm sorry... They had a kid? Like, no surrogate mother? I know science is advanced but.... just...Jesus Christ."  
    "Take a minute to wrap your head around it," Karen says, because it's all she really _can_ say.  
    Kenny laughs, but the sound is painful. This is all too much in one day – first the Stotch funeral, and now...whatever this mess is.   
    "Karen, are you sure you want me to get the police involved? The whole towns’ economy is held up by Doctor Mephisto's lab. If we do anything to compromise that we might land ourselves in a world of hurt."  
    "Jesus, Ken, I know."  
    Then the tears spill over Karen's cheeks. It surprises the both of them.   
    It's been awhile since she's cried openly.  
    "Hey, Karen. Don't cry, kid," Kenny says softly, trying to hold back the familiar panic he gets when other people cry in front of him. "I didn't say I won't do anything, it just said it wouldn't be easy."  
    "I know," Karen sniffles, swiping at her eyes. Mascara and concealer comes off on her fingers.  
    "I'll take care of this," Kenny says. It feels like a lie, but he definitely wants it to be the truth. He wants it more than anything. "I promise I will."  
    "Okay,” she sniffles. “Thank you, Ken."  
  
__________  
  
  
    Kyle exchanges a wary look with Eric, wondering if this has been some kind of trick. Eric doesn’t look any more sure of the situation, and so Kyle does the only thing he could do in that moment.  
    He pulls the covers over his shoulders and chin, then unravels the notebook paper underneath the blankets. His hands shake as he reads it.   
_I'm going to get you both out of here. Please be patient, I know it isn't easy but the baby is safe. I'll figure something out and bring you another note tomorrow._ _  
_ _Hang in there,_ _  
_ __-Karen   
    Kyle reads it over, the reads it over again. Hope  bursts through his chest like a stripper popping out of a cake. Sudden, unexpected and sweet. But he also knows that false hope is worse than no hope at all.

    He tucks the note under his arm and turns to Eric, motioning for him to join him in bed.    
     The camera stares down at them with a beady eye.    Kyle knows he had to be careful.   
   Being shrewd, Eric caught on quickly. He sidles into the bed, careful not to jab Kyle accidentally.    
    When he’s sure that his movements won’t cause his husband torturous, unendurable pain, Eric pulls the blankets over the both of them and lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.    
    "What's it say?," he whispers, shrouded in the blackness underneath the coverlet. Eric could feel Kyle's slow movements, hear his laboriously heavy breathing as he laid his head on Eric's chest.    
    A swell of pity ran through him, but stronger than that was the anger. He would rip Mephisto's fucking balls off and feed them to him. No, he'd kill Mephisto's son and sew his severed limbs onto Mephisto's body, then cut out his eyes and feed  _ those  _ to him.    
     "It said that our nurse is going to help us," Kyle whispered, pulling Eric out of his homicidal daydreams (nightdreams? Who knew what time it was?).   
    Eric brushed Kyle's cheek with his thumb, trying to stave off his disbelief. It would be nice to think she'd help them, but  _ really? _ It was unrealistic to think they'd get out of this situation  _ that _ easily.   
    "This is totally a trick, cmon, Kyle even you can see that, can't you?"   
    "I don't know, I thought that too, but she did do something risky by delivering the note to us."   
    Eric mulled this over. Suppose that was the truth – if they went with it, it's not like they had much to lose anyways.    
    "Okay, well, let's see what happens then. But don't get your hopes up, Kyle. I don't think we're going to win this one."   
    Silence.   
    Then, softly, Kyle mumbled, "I know." And the sound of that very nearly ripped Eric's heart right out of his chest, and he was filled with hatred for Mephisto once more.    
_ God,  _ he was going to kill that fucking bastard with his bare hands alone.   
  
_______   
  
  
    Karen placed the tubes of blood into the centrifuge, then clicked the contraption shut. It whirred to life, separating platelets from red and white blood cells.    
    Beside her in the bassinet, the tiny newborn slept fitfully. Karen could see its eyelids twitching with REM. She wondered what a baby could possibly dream about with such limited life experiences.    
    Tucked away in the corner of the massive laboratory, the computer monitor in front of her was her only source of light. In the corner of the screen, it showed her that it was almost eleven pm, though it felt like it was much later than that.    
    Earlier, Karen had caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she was washing up. The person staring back at her seemed ten years her senior. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks were hollow.   
    She needed more sleep, that was for sure. Even the few hours she managed to catch every night didn't seem to make any difference.    
     Karen found herself envying the baby.   
    The centrifuge hummed as it finished spinning. Karen took notes on the results, glad for the silence of an empty lab. Doctor Mephisto's voice rang in her ears even still, shouting orders and demands, asking rhetorical questions and getting pissed when he didn't receive answers.   
    The huge space around her, normally bustling with life, was dead-still. It was almost eerie. Normally the place was so brightly lit that it stung just to keep your eyes open. The blank walls and white linoleum were always spotless due to the sheer amount of people that belonged to the cleaning staff. Every stainless steel appliance gleamed, and every beaker and Erlenmeyer flask was clear as crystal.   
    The only color in the room was the rubber tops of the color-coded test tubes, and Karen's lavender hospital scrubs.  Without the glaring fluorescents of the daytime hours, the lab was less harsh. The light of the computer and various equipments cast pale grey shadows over the tables and chairs. It made Karen's skin look pallid, which just reminded her further of how exhausted she felt. Coffee had become more frequent a beverage in her life than water, and her body buzzed with the ache for another cup. It was a wonder that caffeine had yet to be classified as a class-A drug. The stuff was clearly addictive.    
    Once she was finished analyzing the blood samples (and it took a while due to her jerky, sleep-deprived movements), Karen glanced around to make sure she wasn't being watched.   
    Then, she pulled out a notepad and began to scribble furiously, trying to get down her further instructions to Kyle and Cartman before anyone decided to waltz into the room.    
    With clammy hands, she tucked the finished note into her shirt pocket, and pushed herself out of her chair.    
    Donning a clean pair of latex gloves and a white paper germ mask, she made her way down the silent halls. LED bulbs hummed overhead, and her shoes squeaked with friction against the floor. 

    God, every step felt like a mile. 

    Karen began walking faster, trying to make it look as though she wasn't power-walking on purpose, should she run into any of the other staff members. If the note in her pocket fell into the wrong hands, she would surely suffer a fate worse than just being fired.

    Her hands started shaking, like they always did when she was worried. Hell, the last time she was  _ this  _ terrified was the first night she had ever spent in a foster home. But her life wasn't at risk back then the way it was now. 

    She had to trust that Kenny would protect her. Cartman and Kyle’s room was only a few short strides away.

    Feeling calmer, Karen rounded the corner – and immediately crashed into a wall of a human being.

    “Oh, god, shit,” she muttered, standing up and rubbing her arm. She glanced up at whomever had so rudely blocked her path – and her heart jumped in her throat.

    “You dropped this, Karen,” Doctor Mephisto smiled. He pressed the note she had so carelessly dropped into her palm.

    “Th-thank you, Doctor,” she stuttered, straightening up rigidly. 

    “No problem, Karen,” he said. She watched him walk past her, down the hall to wherever he had been going. “Oh, and by the way,” he called over his shoulder, “you should really be more careful.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lmao im sorry this took so long

Karen hugs her knees to her chest, cradling her cell phone in her lap. Her mom sits beside her, watching wheel of fortune and sipping a bud light, thick red hair pulled back in a loose bun. The house is warmer than usual, because ever since Karen has gotten her job, they could actually afford to pay the heating bills. The generous salary seemed to be the only thing good about working in Doctor Mephisto's lab.   
    Karen chews on her bottom lip, scrolling through her contacts. Her thumb hovers over Kenny's number. She takes a deep breath and presses the call button.   
    It rings four times before going to voicemail, and there isn't a custom greeting because Kenny had never bothered to make one. She cut off the automated message mid-sentence, and let out a shakey breath.   
    If she couldn't get through to Kenny, she'd drive all the way to Denver. She had no choice –she didn't feel safe anymore.    
    Karen left her mother sitting on the sofa, and went to shut herself in the dark privacy of her bedroom.   
    The walls were still the same dusty shade of pink she'd known as a toddler, and they'd never fixed the crack in the wall from that time Kevin had punched it.   
    Karen sank down onto her bed, pulled her quilt around her shoulders, and tried Kenny's number again.    
    This time, he picked up on the second ring.   
    "Hey, Care Bear, what's up?"    
    His voice sounded concerned, and rightfully so; Karen never called Kenny. They communicated through text messages, stupid memes and vines they thought might make one another laugh.    
    "Ken, I'm gonna just cut to the chase. Something happened at work and I'm totally screwed."    
    Saying it out loud made it feel all the more real. Which made it scarier. Karen clutched her phone a little tighter.   
    "Wait, what?! Do you want me to come and get you?"   
    Karen considered this for a minute. She wanted nothing more than to flee to Denver, but the guilt of leaving Kyle and Cartman (and her parents, for that matter) behind was too strong to take up the offer.   
    "No, Ken, listen to me. I wrote them another note. It was a detailed and totally foolproof plan to get them out of there, but as I went to give it to them, Mephisto... he just... appeared out of nowhere.   
   I just...freaked out and dropped the note," she squeaked.   
    "Oh shit... did he read it...?"   
    "No, he just... gave it back to me. But Ken, he totally knows." She paused to chew nervously at a hangnail. "I'm so scared to go back there."   
    There was silence on the other end, and for a second Karen worried their call had been disconnected, but then Kenny spoke again.   
    "So, how's mom?," he asked nonchalantly.   
    "What? Mom...? Kenny I'm being serious."   
    "Yeah but is she okay? Are you guys able to buy food and stuff?"   
      "We, um, yes we're fine financially but-"   
    "That's great to hear. I gotta go now, Karen. It's nice to hear you voice."   
    "Kenny, I –"   
    "-Bye, Karen. Love you."   
    The line went dead.   
    Karen stared at her phone in disbelieve. A moment later, anger flowed though her, followed by confusion.   
    What the hell was that?!    
   Tears of frustration began to well up in her eyes, and she was ready to throw her phone at the wall when a little 'ping' sounded, and the screen lit up.    
    A text from Kenny.   
**_'Someone was listening in on the call. I had to hang up'_ **   
    Karen stared at the text with wide eyes, barely daring to breath.   
    _**'What the hell do you mean by that??!?!'**_   
    Within three seconds of sending her reply, Kenny texted her back.   
  **_'I mean, somebody was listening in on our phone call. I heard breathing and it wasn't from you because I heard it while you were talking. Idk what's going on but you need to get to Denver now. You're not safe'_**   
  


* * *

  
  
    The lights are off, medical equipment hums endlessly. Kyle's breathing is labored, like he's asthmatic or something, which he's not. It puts a sizzling lump of anger in Eric's stomach, seeing him like this.    
    What's even worse is the helplessness. There is no feeling more horrible than watching someone you love curl up and die while you are unable to stop it.    
    Kyle moans in his sleep – not in a wanton way, he's in pain, and even in his sleep he feels it. Eric stares down at him, pulls Kyle closer into his lap. He tucks the thin blanket around Kyle's too-warm body, strokes his hair gently, and he feels almost panicky over his inability to do anything more. He bends over and kisses Kyle's forehead, knowing that if he were a softer person, he'd be crying right now, even though he's never cried for anyone but himself.    
    The only thing keeping him from going crazy is their tiny sliver of hope – Karen McCormick. He thinks back to her concerned brown eyes and soft curves and he knows he owes her everything, knows she'll do anything in her power to help them if she's anything like her brother.   
    A soft whimper pulls Eric from his thoughts, and he looks down to see Kyle's eyes staring up at him. The green of his irises is dull and glazed, and his skin has this grey pallor that's visible even in the dark.    
    "Eric... where are we..?" Kyle mumbles, and he reaches for Eric's face as if touching him will make him disappear.    
    "We're... shit, Kyle... we're home," Eric's voice cracks as he lies, "we're home and...you're okay." He takes Kyle's hand in his own, kisses it softly, and swears to himself that when they make it out of here, he'll give Kyle the affection he deserves. He knows Kyle can do so much better than him and the thought is usually buried deep, deep beneath his ego, where no one can touch it. But circumstances have made it raw and prominent. He's an abrasive person around everyone else and Kyle shouldn't be included in everyone else. Kyle isn't everyone else and he never will be. He's like the cookie in the Chips Ahoy package with the most chocolate chips. The sweetest. Even when he's angry he still looks like a kitten. Even when he's annoyed he just looks like a baby who tasted a lemon for the first time – perplexed and disappointed.    
    "Why are you crying?," Kyle whispers.    
His other hand wipes away the tears that have cascaded onto his forehead. He stares at his hand in confusion, as if he can't comprehend the idea of his husband in tears.   
Eric slumps forward, sobs into Kyle's curls.   
For the first time in forever, he doesn't know the right thing to say.    



	7. Chapter 7

Karen burst through the police station door, a compact blue duffle bag slung over her arm. Her hair blew wildly in her face and eyes, giving off the impression that she was panicked – and rightly so, because she was panicked. Kenny was on his way to pick her up and get her the hell out of South Park, but she was fucking sick of the police force's incompetence. Nothing ever got done, everyone was an idiot, and she was damn tired. The only person in the entire town who actually did their job was the Sheriff, and his lack of help was three parts confusing and one part infuriating.    
    "I demand to see Sheriff Tucker," she announced slapping her palm onto the reception desk. Her chest swelled with breath from her frantic entrance, her cheeks red with annoyance.   
    Officer Clyde Donovan looked up at her with a glint in his eye and muffin crumbs on his lapel. He eased back into his chair in a feline way and smiled at her.   
    "Long time no see, Miss McCormick. We've barely interacted since high school, haven't we?" He raised an eyebrow coyly. "Seems the puberty fairy finally gave you that magic kiss." His eyes not-so-subtly traveled down to her breasts.   
    Karen bit the inside of her cheek and dug her heels in.    
   "Look, Officer Donovan, I really need to see Craig," she said, her eyes darting around the unkempt office.   
    "Relax Sweetheart. There's no rush here," Clyde grinned, pushing back from his seat and standing up. "And excuse me if this is inappropriate, but," he leaned forward, "you've easily become the most attractive McCormick, and that's saying something."   
    Simmering, Karen held back her anger by a very, very thin string. She really didn't have the patience to deal with people like Clyde Donovan right now, and they seemed to spring up in her life around each and every corner.    
    "Clyde, I'm being serious. I've been calling in all week, and I'm sorry but you people just sit on your asses and do absolutely nothing to help me," she cried. Her face burned with her sudden lack of composure. "I'm sorry, I just... where the hell is Craig anyways? I really need to talk to him."   
    Clyde's face went hard at the jawline, all the boyish mischievousness melting away.   
    "Look, Karen...Craig hasn't been in all week."   
    "What? Why?!"    
    "He's got some sort of bug. I dunno," he waved his hand dismissively. "All I know is that if it's bad enough for him to be taking time off, it's gotta be serious. Between me and you, Craig has a serious boner for police work. He never takes time off."   
    Karen frowned and pinched the bridge of her nose. The police of her town were fucking insufferable.   
    "Well, can't you at least tell me where he lives these days?," she sighed.   
    "If it's really that urgent I can give you his address, hold on a second."    
   Clyde ducked behind his desk and came back up with a notepad. He scrawled something down and tore it out the sheet, handing it to her.   
    "There you go. I hope you can read my handwriting," he smiled.    
    "Thank you," Karen said absently, feeling deranged and cut off from her surroundings. She crossed her arms and stared at the ground, feeling the stiff paper between her fingers. "You're the only one who's been any help so far."   
     "No problem. I hope Craig helps you out."   
    "I hope so too," she replied, then erased the worry on her face with a halfhearted smile. "Well, anyways... thanks," she fiddled with the strap of her duffle bag, then turned to go.    
    "Anytime, sweetheart." he called after her, as she slipped through the glass doors, his eyes trained on the small of her back. "Anytime."   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
"Welcome to Tweak Brothers," Tweek announced, then braced himself for the next line, which, though his dad had always made him say it, was still freshly stupid every time. "Every sip of our coffee feels like a sunrise over a meadow and reminds one of the dewdrops on spring lilies."    
    "Hello Tweek," Karen smiled, inwardly mocking  the retarded line he was forced to rattle off.    
    "O-oh! Hey Karen. Uh, the usual?" He asked, already poised to jot barista instructions on a cup.    
    "Actually, no. I need two large lattes, one with no sugar please."    
    Tweek raised a slightly twitching eyebrow.    
    "Oh? W-Well, what's the occasion? Are my cappuccinos not good anymore?! M-My mom keeps saying I'm burning the coffee too much and I don't want it to taste bad cause then we'll go out of business and I'll have no money! Agh! That would be terrible cause we'd be homeless and I'd have to eat garbage forever–"   
    "– calm down, Tweek. It's not for me, it's for my brother. He's coming to pick me up soon and I figured he could use some caffeine, that's all."   
    "Oh. Well, I'll get those started for you, then," he said, ringing up her purchases. "That'll be five dollars and 63 cents."    
    She handed him a ten and dropped the change he made out for her into the tip jar. Tweek certainly deserved it with all the pressure he was under– plus his lattes were always pretty damn good.   
    With unnatural speed, the two coffees were fixed. Tweek stuck two stoppers in the spouts to keep them from getting cold and slid them across the counter. He watched Karen balance the drinks in her arms and walk out the door.    
    Certain that the morning rush hour was over, Tweek undid his apron and flipped over the 'be back soon sign' hanging in the window. Last nights trash still had to be taken out, and the floor could use some mopping too, after all the wet muddy sludge tracked in by the early morning customers.   
    Tweek locked up, just in case a raving maniac decided to break in while he took out the trash. There were several bins out back that needed emptying. They stood in need little rows behind the building, overflowing with black trash bags.   
    Tweek grabbed the first two and tipped them onto their wheels, anxious to get this over with so that he could get out of the cold and back into the warm cinnamon hug of his family's coffee shop.   
    He wheeled the bins to the side alley, where the dumpster sat squatly against the wall. Tweek propped the lid open, sending a thick sheet of snow sliding to the ground. He lifted the first bin with a grunt, and tipped the trash into the dumpster. He set the empty bin down and brushed his freezing hands on his jeans, ready to get started on the second one when something far off made his ears prick up.   
    Yelling, some sort of scuffle about two yards away.    
    Shaking, Tweek reached into his pocket and thumbed his cell phone. Against his better judgement, he began creeping towards the edge of the alley.    
    He peeked around the corner, then shot back.   
    Three unidentifiable men, Karen McCormick struggling in the middle.   
    Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.   
 Karen thrashed against the largest guy, the one trying to pin her down. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs, and Tweek instinctively felt embarrassed to stare at a girl in her indecency. Frozen with fear, he flattened himself against the wall, his heart pumping violently. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the situation to fade out of existence. The audio was more than enough to keep him in the throes of panic.    
      Out of morbid curiosity, Tweek peered around the edge of the wall again, watched as the largest guy clap an hand over Karen's mouth, muffling her sobs.    
    "This fucking bitch won't shut up," one of them grunted.   
      "Knock her out, then."   
    Tweek watched one of the guys pull out a gun from his waistband. He stood there, paralyzed with fear.   
    A large crack sounded, and Tweek flinched back, pressed himself against the wall.   
When his heart finally stopped pounding, he glanced around the corner again.    
    There was a small lake of coffee, and the three guys were carrying Karen off.    
    She wasn't conscious, but oh thank god they hadn't shot her. It seemed they'd just hit her over the head to knock her out.   
    Either way, holy shit.   
Holy shit holy shit HOLY SHIT.   
Oh my fucking god.    
  


* * *

  
  


    A slow, quiet cold enveloped a series of condos on the outskirts of South Park. They were strong buildings, and the red brickwork kept out the draft – but even the toughest walls couldn't shield anybody from the record low temperatures of that night. 

    The sky outside the penthouse’s windows was a deep, starless grey – a sure sign that more snow was on the way. Craig Tucker sat in the center of his bed, nestled in a huge mound of blankets and pillows.

    He sniffled miserably and closed his Netflix tab. There was only so much stuff you could watch before your eyes melted out of your head.

    He was incredibly sick, but even worse, he was incredibly bored. Nothing was shittier than being holed up at home with nothing and nobody to keep you busy. 

    Craig rubbed his stinging eyes and glanced up from his laptop. 

    The penthouse he lived in had always felt way too big for him. There was so much open space, and not because the place wasn't properly furnished. Quite the opposite actually – Craig had really nice furniture, plush sofas and expensive light fixtures and cool, modern kitchenware. 

    It felt empty because it was meant to be filled with people. It was the kind of place meant for dinner parties and endless company. Not a hapless, cynical bachelor.

    Craig rarely thought of loneliness. He was an introvert by nature and a loner by choice. He had no right to feel alone.

    And when he did, he chose not to think about it.

    Though right now, with his pounding head and cotton-dry mouth, he did feel a little alone.

_ But it's just because of the boredom.  _

    Coughing, Craig drew up his police files on his laptop for about the thousandth time that day. Even though he was taking time off from work, he couldn't keep his hands off the Stotch case. There was so much left unsolved, and there were barely any leads. Craig  _ lived _ for puzzles like this one.

    Lately he had been mapping out Linda Stotch’s facebook page, scouring for anything substantial. He'd been grasping at straws, though frustration rarely got the better of him. Challenge was delicious, and this particular case was a whole fucking pie.

    Craig opened up her old facebook again. He almost began picking up where he left off when a soft knock echoed through his empty apartment. 

    It was so quiet that Craig almost though he imagined it – but no, there it was again.

    Craig clicked his laptop shut and slid out of bed, his head spinning. He wrapped his duvet around his shoulders and padded over to the door, very much on alert.

    He peered through the peep hole, fully expecting it to be an Amazon package or something of the like.

    Much to his surprise (and chagrin), on the other side of his door stood a shaking blond mess.

    Craig unlatched the door and swung it open a bit more violently than intended. 

    “What are you doing here, Tweek?”

    Tweek Tweak let out a startled yelp and jolted back, looking as if he'd seen a ghost. 

   “I-I, there, y-you –”

   “Tweek, you...you can't come here. This isn't okay,” Craig said quietly, his tone flat.

    “I didn't know what to DO! S-something bad happened and now she's DEAD probably and I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO and AND and I don't know who else to go to and you hate me but I can't do anything else and they're probably cutting her body up into teeny tiny little bits right this second, oh god–”

    “– Tweek, please. I'm sick right now and I can't deal with whatever this,” he waved his hand around, “is. You can come inside and sit at my kitchen table but let me make this  _ very _ clear. If whatever you're here for isn't serious, I will lose my fucking mind. Do you understand, Tweek?”

    Tweek gulped, then nodded.

    “Good. Come inside then,” Craig turned, motioning for Tweek to follow. “I don't have all night, you know.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tweek VS Craig! Ahahahaha! finally, some smut as well. It's finally time to switch the rating on this fic :p (Also, sorry for taking so long for the update. Thanks for bearing with me <3)

   "Tweek, you need to calm the fuck down," Craig sighed. His ex was a pitiful sight, sitting across from him on the edge of a leather arm chair. Tweek tried to stutter out a sentence, but all that managed to escape past his lips was a pitiful whimper.    
    Clearly, he was traumatized by something he had witnessed. He had to have been, if things were bad enough to come for Craig's help after the breakup they had had only six months earlier.   
    Craig still felt raw from it, and seeing Tweek in person made it all the worse.    
    If anything, there was no question as to why Craig had fallen for him in the first place. Tweek and all his insecure fragility depended on Craig, and Craig loved being depended on. It fed his enormous ego (though at least he was humble enough to admit he  _ had _ an enormous ego).   
    Craig pushed himself up from the sofa he sat on opposite Tweek. He sighed and crossed his arms, staring down at him.    
    He was pissed that even after everything, having Tweek in the middle of his living room felt natural. And seeing those hazel eyes all glassy with tears did weird things to him that he sought to avoid.   
    After a moment of silence, Craig bit down on his bottom lip and shook his head.   
    "I'm going to make you some coffee. But you better talk, Tweek. I'm not doing this all night."   
    Tweek nodded, eyes boring into the rug on the ground.    
    "O-okay..."   
    With that, Craig went to his kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. A  _ large _ pot, seeing that Tweek probably needed it.    
    The machine hummed soothingly, a steady stream of umber liquid pouring from the spout. It finished with a click, and Craig fetched a mug, the largest one he had.    
    "It's extra hot so be careful when you drink it–" Craig stopped in his tracks. Tweek had fallen asleep on his sofa.   
      Suddenly, Craig felt pissed. Really pissed.  _ Who the hell did Tweek think he was, showing up like this in the middle of the night? _ After their breakup there was a  _ clear _ unofficial restraining order between the two of them, a boundary Tweek had decided to breach without any regard to how Craig might have felt.    
_  If it was such a god damned emergency then Tweek should've called 911. _ Craig wasn't some sort of fucking Scooby Doo, eager to solve his towns’ stupid mysteries at three in the morning. And after the way he and Tweek had ended things, the sheer audacity of Tweek showing his face was enough to make Craig explode.    
      He set the mug down on the coffee table harder than he probably should have. The coffee sloshed over the edge and burned Craig's hand, but he was too angry to notice.   
     "Wake up, Tweek," he commanded, his voice flat. When Tweek barely even stirred, Craig felt ready to lose his shit.    
    He shoved Tweek's arm, and the blonde blinked up at him, startled and confused.    
    "Who the  _ fuck _ do you think you are, showing up like this after what you did to me?," Craig spat. His grey eyes glinted.    
    Tweek's Adam's apple bobbed. "L-like I told you six months ago, i-it wasn't what you think..."   
      "Don't give me that shit! It was exactly what it looked like and you know it!"   
    Tweek stood, his jaw clenched and his fists tight, bloodless and shaking.   
    "You don't know anything, Craig! If you ever gave me a fucking  _ chance  _ to explain myself, you might understand what really happened! But you  _ never _ did.  _ Never _ ."   
    Craig stepped forward, balling a fist in the front of Tweek's shirt, and for a minute, he detected a hint of fear in the blond's eyes.    
    God, he wanted to make Tweek hurt, make him hurt the way  _ he _ had hurt all these months. He wanted Tweek battered and bloody and begging for forgiveness.    
    But he wasn't expecting the punch.   
      Pain exploded through him, and Craig felt his right eye beginning to swell. Momentarily, he was stunned.   
    "Don't. Fucking. Touch me," Tweek hissed.   
    "You FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT," Craig roared, driving his fist into Tweek's stomach.    
    Tweek fell against the couch with a groan, his eyebrows drawn together in anger.   
    "ASSHOLE," he screeched, ramming into Craig's middle and sending him flying into the coffee table. "THAT FUCKING  _ HURT _ ."   
    Craig stood up shakily, hot coffee staining his clothes.   
    "Good!" He threw a second punch, then another to the flesh of Tweek's cheek while he was down.   
    "Uhnnnnn....," Tweek drawled, his head lolling back.   
    For a panicked second, Craig realized he might have gone too far.   
    Swallowing nervously, he moved to check Tweek's pulse.   
    In that instant, Tweek locked his fingers around Craig's wrist and bit down hard into the skin of Craig's hand.   
    "AH! FUCK!"   
    Tweek tasted copper on his tongue. He grinned wildly, feeling like he was going insane. He shoved Craig off of him, kicked him in the ribs.    
    Craig clutched his stomach and hissed with pain, angry tears pricking his eyes.    
    Tweek swayed as he managed to stand upright, despite his head spinning.    
    Craig laid sprawled on the ground, his vision prickling with black at the edges. He moaned lowly, anger coursing through his veins. Tweek dizzyingly swam into view, leering over him like a madman. His hips were straddled, arms pinned to the floor by long, thin fingers.   
    "You're fucking terrible, god!" Tweek drew back his fist and punched Craig's midsection,  _ hard _ .    
    "I,"  _ thwack _ , "FUCKING,"  _ thwack _ , "HATE,"  _ thwack _ , "YOU,"  _ thwack _ , "SO,"  _ thwack _ , "FUCKING," _ thwack  _ , "MUCH,"  _ thwack. _   
      Tweek banged his fists weakly onto Craig's chest, curling over and squeezing his eyes shut.    
    "You're the worst person I've ever met...," he rasped.    
    With a surprising amount of strength for someone who had just gotten beaten the crap out of, Craig grabbed Tweek's thin, freckled wrists, flipping him over and pushing him into the carpet, slender legs trapping Tweek's small frame and holding him down.   
     Tweek bucked his hips, trying his hardest to writhe out of Craig's hold.    
    Craig took in the sight of the blond trapped beneath him. Tweek's hair was tousled wildly, and a thin river of blood ran down the dip between his lips and nose. His hazel eyes darted around, flitting through every emotion in the book. A bruise was forming above his right temple, beneath a smattering of light freckles.    
    Craig's hands trembled. He loosened his grip, fingers trailing up Tweek's arms, stopping at his shoulders. 

    Tweek licked his lips. His perfectly inviting mouth quivered.    
    Craig dipped forward, his thumb coming to rest on Tweek's chin, tilting his face up.    
    Tweek brought up his right hand, held onto Craig's wrist nervously, hardly daring to look away.    
    Craig swiped his thumb over Tweek's thick bottom lip, and he was close enough to feel Tweek's breath hitch.    
    He wasn't sure who leaned in first, but then they were suddenly kissing, Tweek's mouth hot and soft against his own, so achingly familiar. Craig ran a hand down Tweek's abdomen, sliding his fingers under Tweek's thin sweater and meeting with deliciously warm skin. He pressed his thumb into Tweek's side, rubbing circles, his head spinning a thousand miles a minute.    
_  Fuck _ , this felt so good,  _ Tweek  _ felt so good, drove him fucking crazy with those beautiful eyes and pink-dusted cheeks and golden blonde hair. He’d missed this so badly, worse than he had ever realized.   
    Tweek mewled softly and the sound sent all the blood in Craig's body straight to his dick. He bit down on Tweek's bottom lip roughly, and Tweek let him in, opening his mouth and dirtying the kiss, all tongue and breathe and heat. Tweek wound his fingers into Craig's thick, inky hair, pulling him down closer, opening his mouth wider, grinding his hips upwards into that wonderful friction.    
    Craig moaned lowly, his mouth slipping to Tweek's neck. He bit down quite hard, grinning as Tweek yelped in surprise. He sucked at the tender spot, tasting Tweek's skin and pulse in his mouth. Tweek squirmed beneath him, breathing heavily.    
    Craig bit down again and Tweek whimpered, his fingers tightening in Craig's hair. Craig could feel Tweek's hardness beneath him, aching against his own. He kissed the bite softly, feeling as though Tweek had earned it.    
    He reached down and palmed Tweek through his jeans, grinning against the blond's neck.   
     "O-oh...! C-Craig... please," Tweek stuttered, moving his hips upwards into Craig's hand.   
    "Please what?"   
    "T-take them off..," Tweek panted. Craig happily obliged, undoing Tweek's belt and yanking down his jeans.    
    There was a dark wet patch over the front of Tweek's briefs. Craig practically salivated. He rubbed his index finger over the form of Tweek's member through the cloth, smirking as Tweek twitched.    
     "You fucking tease," Tweek whined, pushing up onto his elbows.    
    "Would you like me to stop?"   
    "N-no!" Tweek cried.    
    "Beg, then," Craig smiled.   
    "W-what...?"   
    "I said, beg."   
    Tweek blinked at him, his cheeks bright pink.   
    "P-please...," he said softly.   
    "Aw, cmon Tweek, you can do better than that," Craig scolded.   
    "P-please, Craig, don't tease me like this!"   
    "Alright, fine. Only since you asked so nicely," Craig smirked. He gathered the blond into his arms, standing on not-so-steady legs. His own cock was painfully hard, just from Tweek's pleading alone.    
    He carried Tweek to his bedroom and set him down on the bed, crashing their mouths together almost immediately. Tweek lapped at Craig's tongue, and Craig couldn't help moaning this time. He slid a hand down the front of Tweek's briefs, his fingers meeting the hot skin of Tweek's member, already sticky with precum.   
    Tweek moved up into Craig's hand, moaning breathily into Craig's mouth.    
    Craig pulled his hand away and moved back.   
    "Take off your shirt," he ordered.   
    Tweek tugged the sweater over his head, his movements painfully slow.    
    Craig undid his own pants and pulled them off, along with his boxers. He leaned over Tweek's chest and took a pert nipple into his mouth, rolling it between his teeth. Tweek gasped as Craig circled it with his tongue, while his hand wrapped around both of their members and began to tug skillfully.    
    Craig switched to the other rosy bud, his own breath becoming erratically paced at the feeling of Tweek's cock pressing against his own, slick with both of their excitement.    
    He nipped at Tweek's nipple, enjoying how Tweek clawed at his shoulder blades with pleasure.    
    Craig moved away and pulled his own shirt over his head, tossing it unceremoniously to the floor.    
    He gazed down at Tweek, reduced to a quivering mess before him. His skin was peppered with black and blue marks and scrapes. The yellow light of Craig’s bedside lamp cast black shadows over Tweek's face. His half-lidded, lusty eyes, his slightly parted lips, his crimson cheeks and flushed skin.    
    Craig leaned down and kissed him tenderly, feeling like his heart was breaking all over again.    
    It was terrible, the way he felt like a starving man being presented with a feast, only to have it snatched away. He buried his face into the junction between Tweek's neck and shoulder, breathing in his scent. Undeniably, coffee, and something lemony, like dish soap.   
    "C-Craig...?" Tweek murmured, his left hand coming to rest at the nape of Craig's neck.   
    Craig nuzzled into Tweek's skin. Hot tears spilled out before he could stop them.   
    "God, I missed you," Craig whispered. Tweek cradled him close, then shifted so that Craig had no choice but to look up at him.    
    "Craig..," he touched the corner of Craig's mouth, staring at those glazed blue eyes. "C-craig, I want you inside me.. I need you inside me," he rasped, his cheeks turning even pinker. Craig's eyes were so intense. Tweek tore his gaze away in embarrassment, fingers playing with Craig's hair. "I needed you so much, all this time.... I needed you so badly and you weren't there. I just needed a second to tell you how things really were.... I-it wasn't what you think ...and I gave up that life.... it ruined every good thing I ever had..."   
    Tweek cupped Craig's face in his hands.   
    "Nothing was good anymore. You were gone and nothing was good anymore. I felt nothing. I had nothing, every part of me hurt....cause... cause I needed you back so badly.... I missed you, Craig."   
    Craig sat up, his eyes wet with tears – though he didn't feel all that weird about crying in front of Tweek. If anything, all his anger had melted away, replaced with tenderness and longing for the only person he had ever wanted in his arms like this, the only person he had ever missed like this. The only person who drove him out of his god damned mind.   
    He kissed Tweek so softly, so tentatively it felt like their first kiss back in elementary school.    
    "I don't have any lube or anything," he said when he finally pulled away. Tweek took Craig's hand silently. He nipped at Craig's index finger, then took it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit and coating it with his saliva, then doing the same to Craig's middle and forefinger.   
    "W-will that work...?," Tweek implored, his gaze shy. 

    Craig felt stunned at how erotic Tweek looked sucking on his fingers, so much so that all he could do was nod.    
    He pushed Tweek back against his pillows and spread his perfect little ass apart.    
    Carefully, he prodded Tweek's entrance, slipping one finger in experimentally. Tweek jolted, clenching tightly around the digit as Craig worked in another.   
    "O-oh... god..," Tweek muttered, moving his hips against the intrusion. Craig scissored his fingers, preparing Tweek for a third before slipping his forefinger in.    
    Tweek groaned and rocked his hips back, fucking himself on Craig's hand. Craig curled his fingers, eliciting a yelp of pleasure from the blond as he found Tweek's sweet spot.   
    Craig slid his fingers out, and Tweek whined with frustration.   
    "Relax," Craig laughed. He gently pushed Tweek’s head down, and without any protest, Tweek engulfed half of Craig's cock in his mouth.    
    Craig tipped his head back, sighing deeply as Tweek rolled his tongue around the pulsating tip, paying special attention to the extra-sensitive slit.   
    "F-fuck, Tweek," Craig hissed. 

    Tweek licked a fat stripe from the base to the head, then took Craig into his mouth as far as his gag reflex would allow.    
    His mouth watered around Craig's cock, and he sucked experimentally. Craig cried out loudly, and Tweek continued, pulling out just as Craig was starting to really lose it.   
    "Fuck me," he breathed against Craig's ear.    
    Craig pushed him back roughly, and Tweek's eyes went wide. Without warning, Craig thrusted fully into him.   
   "A-AH," Tweek cried, his body exploding with pain and pleasure. Craig grunted and shifted his hips a little. Tweek moaned wantonly.   
    The pressure of Craig's cock was enormous inside of him, lighting every nerve in the lower half of his body on fire.   
    Craig thrusted, and soon they both found a rhythm, panting and moaning, Tweek chanting his name like a mantra. Craig pushed Tweek's thigh back and pulled out almost fully before thrusting back in, and from the way Tweek screamed he knew he had found that wonderful little bundle of nerves, the spot that made Tweek go crazy.    
    Tweek bucked hard against Craig's cock, needy and pleading.    
    "F-fuck, Tweek, you're so tight," Craig hissed. "You haven't been with anyone else, have you?"   
    "N-no," Tweek breathed, "only you."    
    Craig rammed into him again, and Tweek cried out his name.    
    "Did you touch yourself all this time, thinking about me?," he asked, his voice thick.   
    "Y-yes!"   
    "Did you finger yourself, like a little slut, imagining my cock inside of you?"   
    "Y-yes!," Tweek sobbed, thrusting his hips against his lover and twisting his fingers into Craig's linen sheets   
    "You ached for me all this time," Craig grinned, ramming into Tweek again. He took Tweek's cock in his hand and pumped.    
    "O-oh, Craig! Craig! Nnnn," Tweek babbled, his face gorgeously lewd.    
    Craig loved seeing Tweek undone like this, especially after all this time, and Tweek was so damn tight - he was definitely telling the truth about not being with anyone else since their falling out.   
    And now Craig was taking him all over again, claiming him with bite marks and bruises, painting Tweek's insides with his name.   
    He pressed his mouth to Tweek's, tasting his moans, his sweet voice. He could feel Tweek shaking beneath him. They moved together so naturally, both of them knowing how much it hurt to be apart from the other, how satisfying it was to settle things with their fists, and after all this time apart, how incredible it felt to finally be tasting each other again.    
    Tweek's back arched, and Craig steadied him by pressing his palm to the small of Tweek's back, pulling him flush against him while he tugged on Tweek's twitching member.    
    Craig nipped at Tweek's bottom lip, feeling stars blossom behind his eyes as Tweek's tight body enveloped him.    
        "Tweek," he mumbled against Tweek's mouth, "Tweek, Tweek, mm." He buried his face against Tweek's neck, just so that he could hear those adorable moans a little bit closer.    
     "C-Craig... I'm.. I'm gonna–"   
     "Cum for me," Craig growled, taking Tweek's earlobe between his teeth. He gave Tweek's cock one last tug, and then Tweek came. Hot seed coated their abdomens and glazed Craig's hand. He could feel Tweek shuddering around his own member, and the feeling was fucking heavenly.    
    Craig was close, and he kissed Tweek hard as he came.    
    When he pulled out and rolled to his side, he stared up at the ceiling. Then he glanced at Tweek, watching his lover's chest rise and fall as he caught his breath.    
    Craig took Tweek's hand, brought it to his mouth, and kissed his fingertips gently.    
    Tweek blushed profusely at the gesture. He shifted closer and pressed his face to Craig's chest, closing his eyes.    
    Craig reached over him and flicked the lamp off, bathing them in darkness. He pressed his nose into Tweek's impossibly soft hair, feeling too tired to care about cleaning himself up.   
    Outside of the apartment, the wind howled endlessly. The moon illuminated the night, but it was tucked away, out of sight behind a curtain of clouds.   
    The sounds of Tweek's soft breathing, the clock ticking out in the living room, the hum of the central heating, they were all a rhythm that steadily filled the room.    
    And right as Craig slipped off into sleep, another sound joined the rest – but it hardly fit in with the peacefulness. Craig's laptop beeped shrilly, signaling that the airtight, protective firewall had been breached.   
    But Craig was out cold, and he slept right through it. 


	9. Chapter 9

Her head felt like it was splitting in half. Thick, cloudy pain blocked any notion of thought, though deep in the back of her mind, there was a lazy panic. The awareness that something was wrong.   
    With belated horror, Karen realized there was no feeling in her arms. She squirmed languidly, tugging at her wrists, only to find that they were bound with zip-ties. A prickling sensation crept down her fingers, as the motion had gotten her circulation going again.    
    Her eyelids felt like lead, and prying them open felt like trying to lift a barbell twice her own weight. Pitch black surrounded her.   
    There was a steady thrum beneath her body, a disembodied claustrophobia and it's stuffy heat suffocating her.    
    She was in the trunk of a car.    
    The air was thin and slightly acrid, and suddenly Karen began to choke with fear, her heart and lungs screaming in a terrified chorus.    
    The car lurched to a stop, sending Karen's body flying to the edge of the trunk. She groaned as her head collided with something solid.   
    Her eyes slipped shut, and the world around her seemed to close in, tighter and tighter.   
    Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered why Kenny hadn't come for her yet.    
    She saw him in her mind's eye. The dimples that framed his mouth when he smiled, his crooked bottom teeth that their family could never afford to fix. His spacey blue eyes and tightly drawn eyebrows, always worrying. Thick lashes he'd inherited from their dad (Karen had gotten unlucky; she had her mother's severe, plain eyes).    
    Abruptly, she couldn't picture him anymore. The sound of her heart pumping madly covered all thoughts.   
    Kenny's worried, kind face was the last thing she thought of. And then her eyes slipped shut.    
  


* * *

  
    Kenny bit the inside of his cheek, trying to block out the cold with thoughts of Hawaiian beaches. The heater in his car had been broken for the past three weeks already, and it seemed that every time he'd started saving for a new one, something more important to buy came around.   
    It pissed him off to think about – he'd sworn to himself that he wouldn't live on his last five cents once he had left the house.    
    And yet he was always strapped for cash.   
Stewing in his annoyance, Kenny turned the radio up.    
    Allstar by Smashmouth blared through the tinny speakers.    
    Irritated, Kenny turned the radio off.    
    He'd been on the road for nearly two hours, and he was still a good hour and a half away from Park county.    
    Purple twilight dipped over the horizon, bathing the mountain range in a frozen lilac. The sky itself was a dark black-grey, a sure sign of an impromptu blizzard.    
    Kenny's thoughts wandered back to Karen. She'd seemed so panicked over the phone, and he had to just pray to himself that she would hang in there until he picked her up.   
    His sister had always been a trooper, but that never stopped him from worrying about her.    
    Karen was a strong kid. It took a lot to break her, which made this situation all the more worrying. The only other time he'd seen her act this afraid was the first night they'd spent in a foster home.    
    He thinks back to her little seven year old face, large, sad eyes weeping into a pillow that didn't smell like laundry detergent from the dollar store   
    Out of nowhere, there’s a deer standing smack in the middle of the unlit road.

     “Fuck,” Kenny curses. He's doing 85, and it's a split second decision– either hit the brakes, which would cause the car to flip, or swerve out of the way, inevitably into the pine trees lining the street.   
    He bites his tongue and sends the car careening to the left.   
    The deer watches stupidly as Kenny's pickup crushes against a tree like a soda can.    
    The airbag inflates, pushes up against Kenny's face, and the car bursts into flames.   
    Silently, he thanks the universe that the airbag is suffocating him. He'll be gone before the flames get to him, and he knows from experience that burning to death hurts like a motherfucker.   


* * *

_   
_ _ The sky had gotten black early. It was a Winter night, so the days were short and the evenings came quickly. The weather had packed a freezing punch that day.  _

_     Eric stood in the empty front hallway of South Park's middle school, procrastinating having to walk home. Everybody else's mothers had picked them up nearly an hour ago. His was the only one who didn't own a car. She took the bus every day to work. _ _   
_ _     Finally mustering up the courage to face the cold, Eric tightened his scarf and slipped his knapsack onto his left shoulder. _ _   
_ _     "–HEY, CARTMAN!" _ _   
_ _     Eric whirled around in surprise–  _ hadn't everyone else left already?  _   
_ _     Kyle Broflovski was power-walking towards him in that hideous orange coat. His red curls bounced as he approached. Eric frowned. _ _   
_ _     "What do you want, Jew?" _ _   
_ _     "Why were you crying at lunch today?" Kyle asked, his arms crossed as if he were scolding a child.  _ _   
_ _     "I wasn't crying, you asshole!" Eric sputtered. _ _   
_ _     "Yes, you were. Stan was talking about how he always kisses Wendy and then you started crying like a fucking baby!" _ _   
_ _     "Fuck off, Kahl! That's none of your god damned business! And I wasn't crying anyways!" _ _   
_ _     Eric turned and began to storm away. _ _   
_ _     "Cartman, wait!" Kyle grabbed at his jacket sleeve, and Eric turned back angrily. _ _   
_ _     "Get your filthy Jew hands off me." _ _   
_ _     Kyle released his grip. His eyes softened, and he gave Eric an odd look. _ _   
_ _     "I'm sorry, okay, I just...," Kyle paused, "I wanted to see if you were okay..." _ _   
_ _     A few moments of heavy silence hung between them. Eric seemed to be scrutinizing Kyle, his eyes narrow and his face otherwise unreadable. _ _   
_ _     "I've never kissed anybody, okay?" _ _   
_ _     "What?" _ _   
_ _     "God, don't make me say it again, douche bag. I've never kissed anyone, Jesus Christ." _ _   
_ _     "Wait, that's what you were crying about...?," Kyle blinked. _ _   
_ _     "Yes, asshole. I mean, no, I wasn't crying," Eric scowled. "But yeah." _ _   
_ _     " oh..." _ _   
_ _     "Oh?" Eric raised an eyebrow, his face burning with a deplorable mix of torment and shame.  _ _   
_ _     Kyle rubbed at the back of his neck. _ _   
_ _     "Well, do you want to kiss someone...?" _ _   
_ _     "What...?" _ _   
_ _     "Do you?" _ _   
_ _     "Well, yeah, I guess," Eric answered, genuinely puzzled.  _ _   
_ _     Kyle took a deep breath. Then, before Eric could register what was going on, his face was taken between Kyle's hands, and then Kyle's mouth was on his, a soft, warm pressure that was gone as quickly as it had come. Eric blinked at Kyle when he pulled away, completely stunned. _ _   
_ _     Kyle's face went bright red. Eric just stood there in shock, his fingers touching his bottom lip in awe. _ _   
_ _     Kyle scowled, pushed past him, and stalked out the door. _ __   
  


* * *

  
  
"Why...are you crying...?," Kyle rasped. He reached up with an unsteady hand, touching the tears that had fallen onto his forehead with a perplexed, glassy expression.   
    Even with skin the color of candle wax and eyes even more glazed than a Krispy Kreme donut, Kyle still managed to look concerned for someone other than himself. 

    It made Eric's head spin.   
    "Nothing... I'm just thinking about that time you kissed me in middle school."   
    Kyle grinned up at Eric, but it looked more like a grimace than anything.   
    "I remember that."   
    "Yeah..."   
   Silence, filled with things neither of them wanted to admit.   
    Kyle was dying, and it was clear to the both of them. Even though he'd stopped feeling the pain due to mentally checking out, it was obvious he was deteriorating fast. The stitches over his stomach were angrily inflamed, no doubt infected. His skin felt hotter than a stove, his lips were cracked and dry, his voice barely able to go above a whisper.    
    It had been nearly five days since they had seen a nurse or doctor.    
    Time was running out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it's been so long! I've just been settling into Summer vacation and FINALLY I've had time to work on this fic. I know, I know. It seemed like I'd dropped it for good. But trust me, I was actually working on it for a while. I have no intention of putting this fic on hiatus, don't worry.  
> I hope you enjoy the update! comment what you think of it! <3 <3

   When Karen came-to, there was only blackness. No matter how hard she willed her eyes to open, they stayed glued shut. The world was a blank, dead socket without sight. Not being able to see... it was far beyond frustrating. The disorientation was raw, and terrifying. 

     She couldn’t tell if her immobility was due to her physical weakness, or if she had been drugged. The horror of the latter option made her stomach twist.

    And so she listened, tuning in to the sounds around her, since the rest of her seemed to be uncooperative. 

    Though her ears were ringing, Karen could hear a male voice, murmuring unintelligibly. Low, gravley. Oddly familiar. 

    A second voice began speaking, seemingly androgynous in tone.This voice, like the first one, also tugged at the vague, dusty synapses in her memory.

    The speech was muffled, but the individual words became clearer. The speakers must have come closer. 

    “I just don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

    “It’s not about whether or not you want to do this, darling. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

    There’s a soft, labored hiccup. Crying.

    “Hey. C’mon. Honey, it’s okay.”

    “No, it’s not, Stan! This is so fucked up! This isn’t what I wanted!”

    “ _ Isn’t what you wanted?  _ Whose idea was this? Huh? Was it mine, Wendy? No! It wasn’t, was it? I was perfectly happy adopting, hell, Bebe was even willing to be a surrogate! But no, you just...you just have this fucked up idea of what a family is supposed to be! And I’m your bitch,  _ god _ , I just can’t say no to you! You just look at me, all  _ ‘Stan, Stan, please baby, I need this’ _ . And I give in because it’s all about YOU!”

    Quiet sniffling. Sobbing.

    “S-stop it, Stan.”

    “No… goddamn… I’m so done. And now we have Karen McCormick in our coat closet. What the fuck are we supposed to do about that?!”

_   (So I’m in Stan and Wendy Marsh’s coat closet. Huh)  _

    Karen took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of mothballs and floor-polish. And then, even though the effort made her head splinter with pain, she cracked an eye open.

    Her vision began to adjust. Sure enough, she was in a coat closet. A thin vein of light seeped under the doorway, and Karen could see a dusty pair of Louboutins resting on the floor beside her head. Her arms felt like fire, pinched at the shoulder blades, screaming. She tugged at her wrists. They had been bound behind her with zip ties, in an awkward position.

    Weirdly, Karen no longer felt panicked. It was as if her brain had snapped into crisis mode. Everything around her fell away, and now it was fight or flight. And Karen chose to fight.

    She arched her back so that her right eye could peer under the door. There was little to be seen, save for table legs, and Wendy’s ankles.

    If she’d been thinking emotionally, she’d be feeling all sorts of things towards Wendy: anger, betrayal, mistrust. But thinking emotionally meant she’d be trapped in this closet forever. She had to think critically, and so she surveyed her options.

    One: she could wait until it sounded like they were out of the room. And then she’d look around for something with a sharp edge, possibly sharp enough to saw through the zip ties.

Two: She could make as much of a ruckus as possible, hopefully appealing to their guilt, which would lead to being released. Somehow.

    Both plans were terrible. Karen could feel her eyes welling up with hot, painful tears. 

    Wendy, of all people. The one who had acted like a big sister throughout high school, and then through college. Three months ago she had attended Wendy’s bourgeoisie little dinner party. It felt like years ago now -- the clinking of butter knives and dishes, the gentle twang of cello and viola. Karen had even helped Wendy bake the crab cake orderves, because she just couldn’t get them right on her own.

    And now she was curled up, helpless on the inside of a coat closet she had never even given a second thought towards. Until now. Now it felt like she might die in here, in the stuffy, stinking heat, next to that fucking pair of louboutins.

  
  


**Three months earlier:**

    “No, dumbass. That’s not how you tie a bowtie,” Kyle huffed. Eric had been working on that knot for centuries already -- though it wasn’t like he had ever been taught such a simple skill by a doting, loving father.

    Kyle stopped adjusting his watch, and walked over to the panoramic window Eric stood before. The jagged skyline seemed to reflect the peculiar blend of annoyance and focus emanating from his poor husband as he tried, fruitlessly, to tie a simple knot.

    “C’mere,” Kyle sighed, gathering Eric towards him. He spent a few moments adjusting Eric’s sloppy attempt into something fine. Elegance really  _ was _ an art.

    “Thanks, daddy,” Eric smirked, brown eyes glittering mischievously as Kyle swatted his arm.

    “You always know how to ruin a moment, don’t you,” he scolded (though he  _ was  _ smiling). He tugged Eric closer, by the lapels, and planted a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth. Eric was cleanly shaven, the skin of his jaw was soft, bright with the scent of cologne. Kyle wanted to live in it.

    Kyle could feel Eric’s adam’s apple bob as he tucked his head into that perfect spot, right between Eric’s shoulder and the curve of his neck. It was terrible that affection moved Eric so fully, that kindness mystified him. Soft touches and gestures were so far from the forefront of his mind. Even after being married, and loved and held.

    It seemed he’d never get used to being cared about. Kyle was stubborn in changing that, but it had been slow. Sometimes he felt tired. Like he was trying to bring a dead daisy back to life.

    Eric’s arms wrapped around him. Warm and encasing, as if he were trying to convince Kyle that he was worth it.

And then he squeezed Kyle’s ass.

    Kyle exploded into a fit of laughter. His face blossomed with pinks and reds, flushed cheeks and almond-crescent eyes. He pushed Eric away and went to unplug his phone, slipping it into the pocket of his slacks.The time on the screen had read 7:04, and if they didn’t leave soon they’d be late. And Kyle  _ hated  _ being late. 

    Eric switched off the lights, and they left their apartment together, down the elevator and into the car.

    That was the nicest moment they’d had in awhile. Things had been...off, lately. Their conversations had been increasingly short. Dinner had gotten quieter, sex had been less passionate. Kyle seemed to be lost inside of his own head. His replies were always distant. Eric hated to think that maybe he was being cheated on. He was left with no option besides giving Kyle the benefit of the doubt. Though it was difficult, considering Kyle’s odd behavior.

    They drove with talk radio on in the background, Michael Savage yelling about refugees. The roads were clear, blanketed by a beautiful late afternoon sky. Peaches and pinks, cotton candy clouds. Within 20 minutes, they were on the freeway, southbound. Goodbye Denver.

    Not a word passed between them, but sometimes, Eric glanced to his right to study Kyle’s face. Kyle’s eyes were stoic, but not solemn, his mouth a neutral line. He stared out the window, unfocused as trees and fellow drivers blurred past them. Quiet and contemplative. His side profile was so pretty, those gold-red curls, the dimples at the corners of his mouth. He had those even when he wasn’t smiling. Just a pretty guy. He was so pretty and damn, Eric just felt like a piece of shit for stealing Kyle away from the world and keeping him all to himself. He’d never say that out loud, but he knew that Kyle could tell.

    Eric took Kyle’s left hand in his right, lacing their fingers together. Even though he was focusing on driving, he could see Kyle smiling out of the corner of his eye. And he knew they’d be alright.

    Kyle wouldn’t keep secrets.

  
  


    Later that night, guests were sitting along the huge, oak dining table. There were obnoxiously large portions of duck, beef and lamb to choose from. The sides were endless -- steaming dinner rolls with pats of fresh butter. Crispy asparagus garnished with lemon and garlic cloves. Apple pie still hot from the oven. Summer salads with avocado, mango, pomegranate seeds and roasted portabella mushrooms. Every guest had their own bowl of acorn squash soup. There was way too much food. Even Eric seemed to be finding it difficult to navigate his way through it all.

    The high clink of metal to glass reverberated through the room. Chatter began to simmer down, until the space fell nearly silent. Kyle set down his spoon to look up. The soup Wendy had made was excellent, not that he’d expect anything less from her. He watched as all eyes shifted to the beautiful, dark haired woman in red. Wendy Testaburger Marsh. Prom queen, philanthropist, and freshly-elected mayor of South Park. 

    Her lips were painted mauve, and her glossy black locks were pulled into a tight ballerina bun. She smiled at the small crowd that had been gathered here tonight. Mostly friends and family, and a few local politicians sprinkled in. Wendy was a stunning force, and she always managed to touch base with everybody she encountered.

    “Good evening, everyone. Stan and I have a pretty important announcement,” she said, her blue eyes dancing over her guests. 

    Stan stood, and took his wife by the waist. He wore a dark grey dinner jacket and a blue silk tie. There was a light shadow over his jawline, but the stubble suited him well. 

_ They really are a gorgeous couple,  _ Kyle thought to himself. He bit into a very delicious dinner roll.

    “Yes,” Stan agreed. “Wendy, my wonderful wife. Would you like to do the honors.” He beamed at her, his teeth shiny and perfectly straight. 

    “You know I would,” Wendy chuckled. “Friends, family. There’s about to be another resident in this town. I’m pregnant!”

    Everyone erupted volcanically at this news, waves of congratulations and well-wishes and surprise rolling around the room. Kyle glanced over at Eric, who was clapping. It seemed he was the only person here who had to force a smile.

    He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous. 

    As the night went on, Kyle found himself on the Marsh’s terrace, taking a break from the crowd and the noise. The draft of the evening wrapped around him in an attempt to force its way past his blazer. Above, the moon was fat and full, bathing the world in a cold, white glow. Kyle rested his forearms on the porch’s railing, leaning forward to admire the gentle beauty of middle America. He was no longer at ease the way he was three hours ago, when Eric had taken his hand in the car. Maybe it was something about the tight smiles of these dinner guests. Strangers alongside people he had known his entire life. Something was tugging uncomfortably at his subconscious, an unsettling gut feeling. 

    It clicked a moment later, as he recalled a conversation he’d had with Stan. A few months ago, they had been sitting in a pub in downtown Denver. Their hands had been wrapped around mugs of warm ale, Stan sitting across from him, looking more exhausted than ever. It was there that Stan had confided in him that he and Wendy had recently found out she was unable to conceive. His eyes were hollow as he said it, as if it were something that constantly raked him over the coals. 

    The memory of this conversation had been bugging Kyle all night. If Wendy was supposedly barren, how the hell had she become pregnant? If the pregnancy were a fluke, maybe he’d let it go.... But there was something about the insincerity of Stan’s elation. Kyle knew instinctively that his best friend was forcing his happiness over the announcement. There was something extremely off here. 

    Behind him, the french doors creaked open. Lost in thought, Kyle didn’t notice until Eric approaching until he touched his shoulder. Caught off-guard, Kyle flinched. He softened when he realized it was just Eric, standing there looking at him with quizzical brown eyes. 

    “Hey...you okay?,” Eric asked, tentative. Kyle sighed, shaking his head.

    “No...yeah...sorry I just was thinking…”

    “What about?” Eric wrapped his arms around Kyle’s waist, pulling him closer. 

    “I dunno,” Kyle frowned. “It’s weird to me how fake Stan’s been acting, y’know?”

    “Well, I’m not constantly riding Stan’s dick, so no. I don’t notice that shit,” Eric smirked.

    Kyle rolled his eyes, bringing his hands up to touch the sides of Eric’s jaw. 

    “Maybe I’m just being paranoid…,” he breathed, then brought Eric closer to kiss him softly. When they parted, Eric was smiling, and Kyle mimicked the sentiment. He felt warm. 

    “C’mon, let’s go inside,” Eric said, nudging Kyle away from the railing. 

    Kyle followed, compliant. His worries had faded to a low buzz. Pesky, but not at the forefront of his mind.

    Hand in hand, they joined the party, melting into the crowd. 


End file.
